


Half Moons and a Peach Tree

by furiedheart



Category: Chris Hemsworth - Fandom, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Chris does not ask Tom's permission for sex every time they have sex, Chris has a bad attitude and hates everything, Chris is anti social and doesn't like people very much, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fingering, Fluff, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, Just Roll With It, M/M, Smut, Tom breaks down all his walls, and then Tom happens, author doesn't know all that much about football, half asleep humping, half conconscious humping, hiddlesworth au, hints of past domestic abuse, injured athlete!Chris, lots of eye contact, lots of known feelings, physical therapist!Tom, there is no written contract for permission for sex, traumatic sports injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-01-18 18:53:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 88,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1439128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furiedheart/pseuds/furiedheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris is an injured football player notorious for his short temper and dislike of people in general. After failed attempts to complete rehabilitation for his leg, he is assigned to Tom, his new physical therapist. On a deadline for training in October, Chris fights his growing attraction to Tom, who slowly breaks down all his barriers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! I've been writing this alongside Stray Not From Me for a while now, and I'm so excited to finally be able to share it with you all. 
> 
> My beta, duskyhuedladysatan, is simply amazing and I can't thank her enough for all her help. Be mine forever! <3 <3
> 
> Hope you enjoy my new hiddlesworth story!
> 
> UPDATE UPDATE!!! This story now has fan art and it's beautiful! *_* Check it out [here](http://treemuse.tumblr.com/post/104171323694/and-another-for-my-hiddlesworth-series-all-of). Thank you [treemuse](http://treemuse.tumblr.com/)!! <3

Sometimes, the memory of the pain was powerful enough to make Chris grimace. It made him start, no matter what he was doing, terrified it was happening all over again. And lately it seemed like he'd been doing a whole lot of nothing. But once that sharp flash of fire hit his brain and buzzed through his synapses, it was like an outrage, the way he would tense up, breathing heavy, hand shooting out to steady himself before he realized, sweat spotting his brow, that it was only a memory. And then other details would return to him, details he wished would disappear into that dormant part of everyone’s brain, the part no one used, to stay there and die. But the ceiling lights in the bowels of the stadium hallways flashed in front of his eyes as if he were back on that gurney, cold concrete walls whizzing by and feeding his pain and fear, pushed along by the medical team and a few of the assistant coaches, who were striding beside his rolling gurney, shouting words at him that he couldn’t understand through the misery. Teeth gritted, all he could do was concentrate on his panted breaths, helpless.

He’d been given a shot of cortisone, painful in its own right, but he’d hardly felt it, didn’t know if it was even taking effect. Throat raw from his screams on the field, Chris could only swallow tightly at the sight of his knee, swollen beyond recognition. He let his head fall back, nausea rolling through his stomach, anger twisting is heart. It was his own goddamn fault, to trust so easily, so erroneously. Blinded by his helmet, he’d given too much confidence to his teammate to defend his race to the end zone. But if he’d run faster, turned sooner, perhaps he wouldn’t be in the team’s medical room, staff and coaches huddled outside the closed door as he raved from his prone position on the bed, flinging metal pans and their shiny tools through the air.

Tears stung his eyes and he turned his head away from the door, already figuring the time and pain and months of rehabilitation an injury like his would take to heal—an injury he’d witnessed end the careers of other athletes he’d known. Athletes who now did infomercials for diet pills or muscle pain ointment, all for quick cash, or inconsistent jobs commentating on off-season games. How quick the memories of those athletes faded in the face of recruits fresh out of college, with brand new, springy ligaments and creak-less joints.

All Chris had worked for, his sweat and blood, sore and achy muscles, endless hours of training, it was all slipping away. He pounded his fists on the hard gurney. A scream caught in his throat as pain flared up his leg, his knee rattled by his sudden movement. Even though the team doctor hadn’t returned with his diagnosis, Chris knew it couldn’t be anything good. Injuries like his—and all those other athletes he’d seen disappear into the haze of post-injury disappointments and failed returns—never were.

Since being left in the medical room by himself, no one had come in to check on him. No doubt rattled by his burst of violence that sent supplies and metal trays slamming into the wall, his coaches and medical staff stood out in the hall, conferring amongst themselves, already figuring how to replace him for the duration of the season. If rehabilitation didn’t go as planned, his entire role on the team would be in jeopardy.

He didn’t dare take another look down, knowing—and _feeling_ —the severe change his knee was undergoing. Any shift, any slight twitch was enough to send Chris reeling, his vision blurring with the agony.

He couldn’t be done. Not from this. He wouldn’t be pushed aside like a brittle old man. Closing his eyes, he reminded himself to breathe, hands clenching and unclenching. Despite this, he couldn’t uproot the heavy feeling of helplessness burrowing deep in his chest, a slow burn that wound its way through his ribcage, pulling tight and hitching his breath, tiny panicked pants that synced, to his growing horror, with every ache of his knee.

**

_Three months later_

Another fucking red light and Chris swore he would slam down on the accelerator to push through these congested intersections. But in his head he heard his coach’s voice reminding him to breathe in and out and to remember why he needed to be better by the start of the new season in October.

“Six months, Hemsworth. You need to be ready by then.”

His agent was on his ass about it, too. They all needed him to be healthy _now._

Easy to say when he’d gone through four physical therapists, all refusing to work with him after discovering his notorious issues with anger and borderline violence.

_Their bloody fault,_ he thought, swerving around a vehicle going the exact speed limit (people actually did that?). _Bunch of incompetents who don’t know how to make my leg better faster._

Since his surgery in January to repair his torn ACL, effectively ending his season early, and subsequent recovery that lasted through most of February, he’d finally started physical therapy. And while his range of motion had improved, albeit at a snail’s pace, his leg was still very stiff. Walking with a limp was just not the image he wanted to have right now, each broken step a glaring reminder of what would happen if he didn’t get better and fast. Or ever. Give him an early death over old age any day. Nearly three months had gone by and he still felt stuck at square one.

He glanced at the clock on his dashboard and cursed under his breath. He was ten minutes late for his appointment. The clinic was across town from his house, but all the ones near him wouldn’t take him as a patient.

His assigned therapist, Thomas something or other, had emailed him a couple of times to confirm the appointment and ask about his injury history but after Chris’s monosyllabic responses, had dropped all communication.

Pulling into the parking lot, his tires squealed as Chris braked hard, gritting his teeth in pain. Part of the reason why he drove so fast was that he fucking liked it, but also because once his leg was on the pedal, there was very little chance he would move it again. Rotating his knee for things like braking, well, there needed to be a very good reason to.

Limping into the lobby of the building, he took the elevator to the third floor. The hallway was brightly lit and cool, which helped ease him a bit, but he was still tense about the whole situation. He didn’t like meeting strangers and usually lashed out with sarcasm and outright meanness, sometimes not even answering them at all, their pitied stares or false concern enough to irritate him more than he already was. His status as an athlete helped to somewhat preserve his reputation, but rumors of people calling him a hothead didn’t go unnoticed by him.

He pushed through a glass door stenciled with the names of the therapists on staff, location hours, and phone numbers.

_Thomas Hiddleston, PT, DPT._

_Hiddleston then,_ he thought.

“Good afternoon. Are you here for an appointment?”

He glanced at the receptionist and let the door close behind him. Her cheerful greeting nearly made him roll his eyes.

“Yeah. Hemsworth, Chris. I’m here to see Thomas…something. I’m late.”

The young girl smiled. “Oh, Tom! No worries. He’s nearly finished with his last patient and will be with you shortly. Please feel free to have a seat. He’ll step out as soon as he’s free.”

He nodded and eased down into one of the chairs, grimacing as he held his leg straight. While the pain wasn’t as sharp as it had been two months ago, Chris needed to be careful how he moved his leg, otherwise it flared agonizingly and rage at his dilemma would come roaring to the forefront of his mind.

Taking the chance to look around, he realized that the layout of the entire floor was open; workout equipment placed along the south wall and black cushioned beds along the east wall. The middle area was left clear, as Chris expected many of the patients would need plenty of space to move around to complete their exercises. Four rooms with closed doors lined the north wall and Chris guessed they were for evaluations.

Only a few minutes passed before one of those doors opened and a middle aged man shambled out on crutches. He was followed by a tall gangly guy with a clipboard, guiding the man with a hand to the small of his back.

“Great to see you again, Ryan. Remember to ice before bed and no more than 2400 milligrams of ibuprofen a day. Take it easy on the stuff. I want you to be able to use your liver in ten years!”

The man nodded and thanked him, passing close to Chris on his way to the door. The therapist with the clipboard jumped forward and held the door open for him.

Chris could see that he was tall and very lean, wiry but strong, with the kind of easy and delighted smile that Chris doubted was sincere. His gaze was penetrating, though, and he moved so gracefully for someone so skinny.

Chris realized he was staring and looked away quickly.

Turning to him, the therapist smiled, wide and full of teeth, genuine. Chris immediately distrusted that kind of easy happiness.

“You must be Chris. Welcome.” He held his hand out and Chris shook it.

“You’re Thomas?”

“Tom, please. Yes, I’ll be your physical therapist. We’ll start today with an evaluation so that I can check out your knee properly. After which, we can decide what the best course of action will be regarding your treatment.” He walked over to the receptionist, signing the form on the clipboard and handed it to the girl before switching it out for a new one. Turning to Chris, he gestured with his head. “Ready?”

Chris shrugged and braced his hands on the arms of the chair, lifting himself slowly.

Once steady on his feet, Chris managed a tight smile and Tom motioned for him to follow. He could feel Tom observing him as he walked, checking where he held his weight, which side he was favoring.

"You're not from here," Tom noted as they approached one of the doors.

"No," Chris replied shortly, knowing his Australian accent was heavy in the way his vowels were rounder and longer than how people from the States normally spoke. He couldn’t see what his personal life had to do with his treatment.

Tom leaned in close and whispered conspiratorially. "If you haven't figured, I'm not from here, either," he said, winking.

"You don't say," Chris said dryly, having picked up on his British accent right away.

Tom leaned away, his brow rumpling slightly, and led him on.

They passed through the main part of the clinic, where other patients lay stretching or squatting, lifting weights over their heads, pulling bands and talking with their own therapists. A few gave him sideways glances and Chris avoided making eye contact. He was a pretty well-known athlete, his years with the city’s football team gaining him celebrity status. But right now he was focusing on keeping up with Tom’s long-legged strides, so easy and limp-free. Bastard.

Ushering him into the same room he'd used for his previous patient, Tom closed the door behind them.

"Have a seat on the table there."

The room was small, with only enough space for the examination table and a rolling chair for Tom to sit on. A full-length mirror was screwed into the wall, along with a stretching band. A blue exercise ball rested in a corner and the walls were covered in laminated posters detailing the muscles, ligaments and joints of the body, with particular emphasis on the main limbs.

Perching on the chair, Tom flipped through what Chris assumed was his chart on a clipboard.

As he scooted closer, Chris caught a whiff of the fresh smell of his skin, like a goddamn mountain breeze. When Tom glanced up at him, Chris saw that his eyes were a startling blue, with tiny specks of cinnamon brown by his large pupils.

Chris cleared his throat and looked at the wall.

“Okay, so…” Tom started, eyeballing the paper in front of him. “Thirty one year old male. Hey, me too.” Another smile. When Chris didn't react, Tom cleared his throat quietly and continued reading. “Professional athlete. Great general health. Outstanding actually, apart from your incident in January. No injuries previous to that.” He leaned back in his chair and propped the clipboard on his crossed legs. "Tell me how you hurt yourself."

_But I didn’t hurt myself,_ Chris thought. _That other player hurt me._

Dismally, Chris began explaining his injury, which honestly felt like a fucking rehearsed skit, becoming more trite with every telling, confident that less and less people cared. It had been the fourth quarter of a brutal game. The score was tied and Chris was flying down the sidelines on his way to his second touchdown that night. His defender missed his mark and an opponent tackled him from the side, his cleat catching at a bad angle, twisting his leg. He felt his tendon snap—a bright light flaring into his vision—it still made him nauseous just thinking about. The mouth guard tight between his teeth muted his scream of agony. The other player had held still, knowing he was hurt.

"And so you had surgery end of January," Tom murmured, glancing at his notes. "Six week recovery and multiple starts for rehabilitation but no completes. Why's that?"

Chris shrugged and looked away. Why did he have to explain himself? Why go over each half-hearted poke and prod from each and every impersonal physical therapist he’d seen since his recovery from surgery? Providing him with a general treatment program, Chris felt glossed over and ignored, already labeled as damaged and old news. This didn’t help alleviate the persistent throb of anxiety that had crept into his chest that night in the locker room.

Tom sat up. "No matter. You're here now and we are going to get that knee back in working condition." Flash of smile and Chris felt his stomach knot in anger.

Placing the clipboard down, Tom slid his chair directly in front of Chris, but facing the side wall. He patted his legs. "Go ahead and prop your leg up on my knees so I can take a look."

Chris hesitated. Just give him his leg? Really? Wouldn't it have been better if he lie down for this part? Grumbling silently, he refrained from rolling his eyes and lifted his leg with a grimace. Tom widened his knees to accommodate his long leg and studied the swollen joint. Long slim fingers smoothed down his skin, prodding at certain puffy areas, curling around the underside to feel the ligaments there.

"I noticed you were alone in the lobby. Is someone waiting downstairs for you?"

Chris frowned. "No."

"Who drove you?"

"I did."

"But how?" Fixing him with a concerned gaze, Tom waited. His hands stilled on his leg and Chris had half a mind to brush them off for how distracting they were. All the other therapists had clammy hands that made Chris feel dirty for hours after his examinations, making his skin crawl every time they touched him.

Chris gritted his teeth instead. "Very carefully," he lied. Chris cringed inwardly at his own words, so laced with contempt.

Tom looked back down to his knee, a small frown puckering his brows, and Chris thought, _This is it. This is where I lose yet another physical therapist. First ten minutes, Christopher. New record, even for you._

Tom continued to prod lightly at his inflamed knee, hesitating when Chris gasped in pain, marking notes on his clipboard. "The swelling is rather severe. And that is mainly what’s impeding your movement. Swelling will shut down the major muscle function and inhibit new growth. In some cases, this leads to atrophy. But we are not going to let that happen, okay?" He smiled at Chris again and he was really beginning to wonder if this guy was for real. “After we limber up and strengthen your tendon, I’d like to end our sessions with a massage to both legs. Your left has been doing most of the work for a couple of months now, so it needs some TLC too.”

Tom removed his leg and lowered it to the floor very gently, strong hands wrapped around his calf. "Given your fame, our lead doctor has suggested we do all of your sessions in a private evaluation room, at least for the time being. Once you are able to start moving more and performing the activities designed for a larger space, we can take your sessions out to the main treatment area. But first things first, we need to get this swelling down. Your operation was done extremely well. It's healing beautifully. But stiffness and swelling are natural followers of invasive surgery and we need to control that now so that you can concentrate on strengthening the repaired ligament."

Yes, yes, yes. Chris had been given the same spiel before. This was exactly what his other physical therapists had told him at their first consultations too. Nothing new or different.

"You have a timeline of...October?" Tom asked, looking up from his notes.

"Yeah."

"That gives us almost six months. Should be no problem." He was smiling again and despite the growing…something…in his chest, Chris was seriously beginning to wonder if he would be the one to walk away this time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've received such wonderful feedback for chapter 1. Thank you so much for giving this story a try!   
> Thank you, duskyhuedladysatan, for beta'ing this <3

By the end of the hour, Chris was informed to wear shorts every session, take four ibuprofen every morning and night for pain and swelling, elevate his leg every chance he got, and to drink lots of water.

"As an athlete I know you know that, but I thought I would remind you anyway," Tom noted kindly.

Chris turned away to hide his scowl, his hands fisting.

"Are you sure there's no one who can come get you? You have a bit of a drive." Tom’s look of apology seemed almost unintentional. But Chris knew better.

"I already told you, I'll be fine." He didn't mean to sound as biting as he did, but Chris was functioning on his last nerve. This kind of intense attention left him feeling raw and uncomfortable, spread too thin and irritated. Tom’s barely muted enthusiasm made him feel exposed and dried out, simultaneously longing for time alone to rehash his plan on a quicker recovery, and the easy distraction of an unbiased crowd. His hard-earned career demolished as quickly as a candle’s flame blown out. It was incredible, when he thought about it. Which he did. A lot. The bored or oftentimes insensitive physical therapists were too distracted to dedicate the appropriate time to help him rehabilitate his knee. He’d grown tired of receiving mediocre care for his injury.

Tom’s hands, on the contrary, were something else entirely. Chris was lost as to exactly why he liked the way they felt on his overheated skin. Had Tom been the one to first touch his knee back in January, Chris imagined the outcome might have been vastly different. That his first instinct of terror and alarm would have been assuaged by those cool fingers on his leg, his soft words helping to calm his rapidly beating heart, those blue eyes focusing on his own, reminding him to breathe, simultaneously helping to ease his newfound anxiety and enraging him even more. Maybe the paralyzing belief that his injury was beyond recovery would never have been given reason to bloom so horrifically in Chris’s mind.

But after his biting remark, staring at how Tom swallowed and blushed faintly, eyes cast down, Chris was both reminded of what an asshole he was and how very much he wanted to touch that skin. It spread slowly, that pink glow, over his sharp cheekbones and down his neck into the collar of the shirt bearing the company logo. Had it not been for his calm demeanor, Chris would have believed Tom was displaying barely concealed frustration. Before he could analyze it further, Tom rose from his chair and opened the door. Moving very slowly, a glower on his face, Chris angled his body so that his left leg took most of his weight. Pushing up, he stood and took faltering steps to the exit. One foot in front of the other. Easy as pie.

The receptionist confirmed his next appointment before Chris continued out the main door, ignoring Tom's chirpy ‘goodbye’ and to ‘have a nice day’.

_Doubt it._

**

Chris didn't crash on the way home, as much as he figured that would have put him out of his misery. His house, airy and elegant, was hidden from neighbors and the main street by tall Birchwood trees. His housekeeper, Judy, loved to garden and, after shyly seeking permission from him, had slowly created a lovely rose garden outside by the back veranda. She would putter around in the yard after she was done with her chores during her visits every Thursday. Without her in the house, her soft jazz music playing from the kitchen radio, humming as she dusted the rooms upstairs, it was incredibly quiet, a silence he filled with 24 hour sports news casts and hard rock music he listened to on his phone.

He looked forward to her visits once a week, but he never talked to her, just smiled and said thank you, paying her as she left. He just liked knowing someone else was in the house with him, that for even a short time, he wasn’t alone.

Growing up, Chris stayed away from people. He surfed a lot, played tackle football with his two brothers, and kept to the ocean as much as he could. But his parents, from a very young age, were cold toward him, granting more praise to his older brother Luke, for his success at academics, and more affection to Liam, the youngest, giving him cuddle hugs and every video game he wanted. Since he was a child, Chris managed to let grow the same cold reserve they seemed to feel for him, taking it extremely personally that he was the forgotten middle sibling. Apart from taking him to little league games, they never extended any kind of interest in him, which he started to understand was completely fine by him. Liam and Luke never fully came to know the extent of Chris’s dislike for his parents, always ready to include Chris in their everyday activities, leaving him out for nothing. But most of the time, Chris spent his free time at the beach, running in the surf, digging in the sand, eyeing the older neighborhood boys as they played flag football, or the ones who waxed up their surfboards and then ran into the foaming waves to become specks in the horizon, the ocean eating them up quick and spitting them out whole, grinning and breathless, flakes of sand stuck to their flesh. Tanned, skin peeling from the top of his small rounded shoulders, Chris would watch with squinted eyes, hoping to one day be that carelessly happy.

Now, he was in a different country, playing professionally at the sport he fell in love with at the beach, and still angry as hell. He gladly sent his brothers money every year, but none to his parents. If Liam or Luke wanted to give them some of what Chris sent, that was their decision. Being in Australia, his brothers hardly got the chance to visit him, and he did miss them, a bit, but not his parents.

He’d had multiple flings with girls here in the States, but only two encounters with men that he made sure were kept private. He wasn’t out in any way and preferred it to stay that way, especially since he always considered himself to be bi, but at least until his sports career was over he would keep that part of himself out of the public eye.

Which looked like it might be sooner than he expected, if his knee wasn’t back in shape by October.

Today was Monday, which meant he would need to wait to hide his happiness at seeing Judy for another two days.

He followed the long, paved driveway to his front door and got out, careful of his leg. Reluctant to allow hope to spring up by the visit with his new physical therapist, Chris instead focused on the shame he felt at Tom’s enthusiasm and general good cheer, how it threw into stark relief his own defeatist outlook. If such spirited buoyancy didn’t turn his shitty attitude around and help him recover in time, he didn’t know what would.

He shuffled up the steps, grateful for the trees that provided cover from any prying eyes, eyes that would judge how far Chris Hemsworth, star offensive receiver, had fallen.

_Fuck them_ , he thought, opening the front door. _I'll be back in October, if my overly happy therapist has anything to say about it. And when I do, they'll be sorry._

He closed the door with a bang, determined not to lose this PT too, along with everything else.

**

"Breathe in and hold. Good." Tom walked around the worktable in the private room, a long finger trailing under Chris's calf.

Chris was straining to hold his leg up, an exercise that would show Tom the extent of his range of motion. So far, it was proving very limited.

"And hold still for me," Tom whispered. “That’s it.” He held some type of measuring device to his knee and made a note of the degree. Chris huffed, face red from the strain. He concentrated on his breathing, but there was something about the lower register of Tom’s voice that suddenly pushed through his brain. His eyes followed the movements of his PT, watching as he straightened and wrapped one hand around his calf and the other just beneath his hamstring. “And down, slowly.” He took most of the weight of Chris’s leg, but the sudden relaxation of his muscles was a shot of pain straight to his spine.

Chris arched and groaned, hands gripping the edge of the worktable.

Tom stilled, eyes fixed on his face, cool hands flexing slightly. “Breathe. Chris, breathe.”

Chris released his breath and relaxed his leg completely, sweat spotting his brow. Goosebumps erupted along his skin at how sharp the pain was.

Tom smiled and gripped his shoulder gently. “Good. That’s a great start. Hang on a sec.” He rummaged for the lotion on a high shelf, Chris watching with fatigued eyes. He could still feel the warm imprint of his hand through his shirt and he wondered what Tom felt like all over. Probably had clean, milky skin; the hairs on his legs were most likely soft, maybe he had freckles on his back. Tom seemed like the kind of guy who would look over at you first thing in the morning and smile.

Chris shook his head, trying to clear it.

It was his second week of therapy and this was usually about the time his other PT’s had given up on him. Confident it was his temper that had cut those visits short, Chris acutely recalled their impatience with him. But they never seemed to grasp the importance of his wanting to heal so quickly. Their posturing concern only aggravated the anger simmering in the now familiar place behind his ribs. He was preparing himself for the same to happen here, not wanting to acknowledge that he would very much like it if it didn’t. Because he realized with sudden surprise, that he wanted to keep coming back if it meant those long, cool fingers would trace the lines of his leg, just as those sharp eyes tracked his reactions, looking for signs of pain or discomfort, ready to help rid him of it if necessary. Such caring attention left him feeling lost.

He rubbed his hand over his face, wanting to be alone all of a sudden.

“Great. Okay, let me just…” Tom pressed on something below Chris’s line of sight and the table started to rise over the sound of a motorized lift. Once he was high enough for Tom to reach his legs comfortably, he squirted a generous amount of lotion into his palm and rubbed his hands together for warmth.

Lying stiffly, Chris watched with narrowed eyes as Tom inched his gym shorts higher up on his thigh, blushing as he murmured, “Sorry.” Then, he focused all his attention on his leg, rubbing his lubricated hands up and over his knee, easing up into his quadriceps.

It hurt a bit, but Chris couldn’t deny the ease with which his muscles were handling the massage, the tension beginning to wash off with every pass of Tom’s hands, a balm to relieve his leaden pain and dwindling self-esteem.

It was like this with every massage. A slight tingling that started up the length of his leg whenever Tom lay his hands on him, helping to relax his muscles, making him more pliant for Tom’s ministrations. If Chris didn’t know any better, the pain almost disappeared during those few short minutes, only to throb back into existence when Tom removed his hands.

Tom spoke in a low tone as he worked Chris’s muscles. “The thing with swelling is that you need to get it out of the limb. With legs, it’s important to push it up and out. Never massage down. So if you or, better yet, someone at home wants to massage when you’re not here, always remember to massage up.” He emphasized this with a particularly satisfying sweep of his thumbs up the sides of Chris’s thigh.

Chris was clenching his jaw, focusing on bunny rabbits and running laps and tackles and cold showers and definitely not those hands, pressing down gently and hard all at once.

“It’s just me,” he heard himself say, eyes springing open in surprise.

“Pardon?” Tom asked, sweat sprouting on his brow too as he leaned over Chris’s lower half, fingers tightening just past the worst of the swelling, relaxing his hold where the skin was too tender. He was careful with the scarring from his surgery, smoothing his thumbs over the angry red lines, always conscious of every muscle twitch and gasp of pain Chris gave. When Chris didn’t answer, he paused, catching his eyes.

“It’s just me at home. There’s no one else to help with my massage. So I’ll be the one doing it.” He took a steady breath and caught Tom’s eye. “Don’t pretend you didn’t know any better.”

Tom frowned in that adorable way Chris was beginning to recognize as deep thought or deep worry. “Oh.”

And in that one word, Chris recognized the pity of someone realizing that fame didn’t bring everything; that a house with six rooms and a private home gym and movie theater echoed terribly with only one person living in it; that money didn’t exactly mean love and admiration, and friends who cheered you on while you rose in importance dropped off when they smelled an athlete who might not recover from his injury.

He steeled himself and stared at the ceiling, feeling the well-known rage at others’ pity that always left him feeling insignificant.

“Think nothing of it,” he said, voice cold. Tom looked up at him, startled at the change. “I can manage on my own.”

Tom blinked and swallowed but said nothing, continuing with his massage.

Chris felt like a dick. The guy had been nothing but nice to him. Smiling every time Chris walked in, slowing his steps so Chris wouldn’t have to strain himself, explaining things to Chris in a way that didn’t make him feel talked down to. His touch was like fucking magic and there was no denying that the guy had no idea what kind of affect his voice had on people, the voice that Chris was starting to wish would vibrate through his huge house instead of all that emptiness.

Still.

Chris knew rejection was bound to happen and he would be shopping for a new PT soon. Best not to get too attached.

Tom moved to his left leg, which was considerably less painful, but still made him grunt as tension released from his aching muscles. Once he was done, Tom whispered that he would be right back and left the room quietly. Music from the ceiling speakers flowed into the room, some soft rock station that places like that always felt was appropriate for all ages.

_Here it comes_ , Chris thought. No doubt Tom was speaking with the lead PT this very moment, requesting to have Chris removed from his client list. Chris knew he was difficult to deal with, but honestly, he thought he’d been making something of an effort to be agreeable at this location. Sure, he wasn’t sociable like Mr. Chatty Hiddleston here, but he had yet to say a curse word in his presence, hadn’t yelled at him or insulted his expertise and personal intellect. Or threatened to have him fired or smash his face in. A vast improvement, in his opinion.

Chris actually really…enjoyed being around Tom, even if he had difficulty expressing that emotion.

He worried at his lip, wondering how else he could have been different. He closed his eyes in defeat. He would never be ready by October if he lost yet another therapist.

The door opened and Tom stepped in carrying the large and weighty sack that Chris remembered Tom affectionately liked to call the 'horse blanket'.

“Lift for me,” he said and Chris opened his eyes in surprise.

Tom waited, watching him. His right eyebrow raised in question. “Please?”

_Christ,_ he thought. No man should ever sound that tempting when saying that word.

He lifted at the hip and bit back a groan. The blanket was freezing as Tom wrapped it around his entire leg.

“Ten minutes of this and you’re free to go.”

He put the lotion away and began to wind the band around the peg in the wall. He was too quiet and Chris knew he had to have touched a nerve with his stupid remark to not worry about his home situation. Of course he was worried. Tom was the type of kind-hearted soul that worried about others.

“Look, Tom—.” He sighed and rubbed his eyes again. “I didn’t mean to…insult you. I’ve been under a lot of stress and I—I lash out when…”

He stopped when he saw that Tom was just standing there, facing the wall. After a moment, Tom whispered, “Go on,” turning only slightly so that Chris caught a glimpse of a sharp cheekbone and lashes.

“And I guess I lash out when I feel unsure of something. When I feel I don’t have control or I’m being pitied or someone’s out to get me or when I feel—.” Tom turned to him and he swallowed hard. “…alone.”

Instead of facing Tom’s unreadable stare, Chris looked at one of the charts on the wall, laughing humorlessly. “Which is all the time, it seems. I feel… _helpless_. I can’t find a balance in my line of work. I can’t tell who is fake or not so I simply don’t care about any of them.” He shook his head. “Sorry, mate. I don’t know how this turned into a counseling session. Anyways. I’m sorry.”

_Shut the fuck up, Christopher._

He heard Tom take a step closer and he tensed. And then a hand was on his chest just beneath his collarbone, soft.

“I can understand your hesitation. I can understand your fear of being hurt or taken advantage of. But what I can’t for the life of me understand is why you’re alone.”

Chris met his eyes, owlish and blue like his; he peered down at Chris, the overhead light casting his short blond curls in this ridiculous halo and he suddenly couldn’t be there anymore.

He sat up and Tom drew his hand back in surprise. “I have to go.” He began unstrapping the ice blanket from his leg.

Tom came round to stand before him. “But you still have six minutes left on the timer.”

“I can ice at home.”

“Chris—.”

Chris stood quickly despite the pain and braced his hand on Tom’s chest, pushing until he collided softly with the wall behind him, holding him there. The push wasn’t very hard, but still Tom gasped, the sound lost somewhere in the background music. His eyes widened in alarm and he blinked fast, but then he closed them slowly, arms dropping to the side, not stopping Chris in the slightest.

“Drop it,” Chris whispered.

Blinking, Tom’s eyes danced over his face and before Chris could stop and consider what that open look might mean, he turned and limped out of the room.

On the drive home, rather than focus on the agony in his leg, his speed, or the other drivers, Chris tried to blink away the seared image of Tom’s eyes drifting down to the hand pushing him into a wall, and then back to his face, huge and vulnerable and searching.

**

Two days passed.

Chris was supposed to go in for physical therapy that afternoon, but he skipped it, slightly embarrassed and ashamed of his behavior at the end of his previous session, and trying really hard not to care. But mostly he was confused, and angry that he was confused, so he thought staying away would be best.

Tom called fifteen minutes after his appointment time, but Chris let it ring. His message was short and served only to confuse Chris more. "Hi, Chris, it's Tom from the therapy clinic. I'm just calling to remind you of your appointment...that started a few minutes ago, but uh, if you're on your way, let me know and I can arrange my schedule to fit you in. I, um, I can wait. Please don't hurry. But it would be great to see you. To see you to check your knee, that is. To check that your knee is still on track. Anyway, thanks. See you soon."

Instead of deleting the message, Chris let it be. It would automatically save after a few days.

He couldn’t get the look on Tom’s face out of his mind or the way his hands opened up instead of pushing back. Shaking his head, he went to his home gym, hoping some physical activity would keep his mind off the lanky therapist.

He iced in the mornings and evenings, keeping his leg elevated whenever he could. But all this sitting and lying around made him feel as if he was losing more muscle tone than he felt comfortable with.

He was bench pressing his eightieth rep when his mobile beeped. Letting the bar land with a heavy rattle, Chris sat up and wiped his brow with a towel as he checked his message.

It was an email from Tom.

[twhiddleston@ptclinic.com](mailto:twhiddleston@ptclinic.com) wrote at 10:18AM:

_Hi Chris,_

_I hope you are well. How has your leg been? I hope what happened at your last session won't deter you from continuing to attend. Your knee's progress and your health are very important to me. I actually wanted to let you know that I am licensed to make home visits, so if the trip to our clinic ever becomes a burden, please let me know and we can arrange for your sessions to continue on at home. If that's something you would like to do. I hope you're well._

_Sincerely, Tom._

Chris read it over again, noticing that Tom wrote 'hope you are well' twice.

He felt bad for making Tom worry. But there was something preventing him from automatically replying. Quite honestly, he didn't know what to _say._ It was so easy to speak in anger, letting harsh words settle what he was feeling inside into a fine easy layer that others were usually too intimidated or afraid to figure out. And after so much time wading through life on his own, he preferred it that way. Rather he went his way alone than suffer the burden of another person's emotions, a heavy weight he couldn’t care enough to carry.

Since all of his appointments were scheduled ahead of time, he ignored Tom's email and lay back down to resume his reps. Maybe he would attend his next session.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by duskyhuedladysatan. Thank you, love! <3

Thursday morning found Chris in the kitchen scrambling some eggs. When his doorbell rang, he lowered the flame and limped through the dining room into the front foyer to open it. It was Judy. He felt a burst of happiness in his chest at seeing the housekeeper's familiar face.

"Oh, Mr. Hemsworth, I am so sorry! I forgot my key. Did I wake you?"

"Not at all, come in. And please, call me Chris."

She shook her head, smiling. Breezing in, she asked, "Have you eaten?"

But then she caught sight of his attempt to make eggs and shooed him out of the kitchen. Whipping up some better eggs, sizzling bacon and whole wheat pancakes, Judy went on about how thin he was getting and if he would prefer she start leaving food in the fridge for him to eat on the days she wasn't there.

It was honestly the most they'd ever talked and Chris was strangely touched by her sincerity.

He sat at the table listening to her chat away, quite content and strangely comfortable with being the object of someone’s concern. It felt different coming from Judy. There was a genuine maternal emotion that she exhibited, and it made Chris feel a bit jealous of people who received this kind of affection every single day. It felt real. It wasn’t strained, like with his parents. And it wasn’t forced, like with the team doctors or former physical therapists. His mind flashed to Tom’s smiling face, and he felt his neck warm. He blinked and looked down, picking at his cuticle.

After she cleaned the house, she made a run to the grocery store with the credit card he always left her for restocking his shelves. She prepared enough food to last him until she came back the next week, leaving the plastic containers stacked neatly in the refrigerator. When she left, he cranked up ESPN and sat on the couch with his leg elevated. Fiddling with his phone, he pulled up Tom's email every few minutes, reading over certain words, wondering what he meant by this or that. It wasn’t long before his thoughts strayed to Tom’s hands, or the way his lips had twitched when Chris’s sarcasm came out stronger than usual. When certain expressions crossed Tom’s face, Chris wanted to soak them in, figure him out, not able to tell if Tom was only being polite to tolerate him or if he was actually amused.

Tossing the phone away, he stood up with a grimace and went to shower for his biweekly appointment with the team’s chief doctor, Jim Reynolds.

His MRI results showed a clean repair to his ACL, but there was still considerable inflammation and swelling around his knee.

“How’s the pain?” his doctor asked.

“Bad. Persistent. A bit dull, but mostly a distracting ache. I can’t loosen my leg enough to extend it or draw it all the way in. I don’t think the pills I’m taking are strong enough.”

It seemed they went over the same information every visit he had with Dr. Reynolds, who scribbled something on his chart, peering over wire frame glasses.

“I can get you something a bit stronger, and I’ll prescribe you something for pain and inflammation all in one so you’re not mixing two kinds of pills.” He made a note on his sheet. “And you’re doing physical therapy?”

“Yeah. Three times a week.”

“I’d really like for you to be going at least four or five times a week. The more you work that joint, the faster it will start to loosen up. I can write a note for your therapist. What’s the name?”

Chris realized the doctor hadn’t looked at him once after sitting down to begin his check-up.

He swallowed. “Tom…Hiddlestone or something.”

“Ah. Hiddleston. Good man. A few of my patients go to him. Never met him, but he’s very well-liked. Alright, I’ll send a note his way.”

Veering through the usual lunchtime traffic jams, Chris took to the highway at a breakneck speed, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

**

After picking up his prescriptions, he headed home to heat up some of the lasagna Judy had left him. He downed his pills in one gulp and sat at the dining table alone, his foot propped on another chair.

It was juvenile, almost pathetic, but Chris found himself bringing up Tom’s email from the other day. Before he lost his nerve, he hit the reply button and stared at the blank screen.

Typing and erasing and retyping multiple times, he finally settled for what he wanted to send.

hems@falconsfootball.com wrote at 1:29PM: _I should have called about last appointment. But I will be in tomorrow._

He hit send and then swore, feeling immensely stupid. Chris felt disinclined to explain or excuse his behavior to anyone, least of all Tom, who seemed so happy and patient and eager to help. Fucking incredible.

As he was rinsing his plate in the sink, he started feeling a bit swimmy in the head from the medication and stumbled up the stairs for a nap. As he collapsed onto the mattress with a grunt, his phone beeped.

twhiddleston@ptclinic.com wrote at 1:34PM: _Hi Chris, It's really alright, thank you for responding to me. I was worried. Have you considered what I wrote in my last message?_

Chris was blinking blearily at his beeping phone. The pills were making his vision foggy, but he tried his best to respond.

hems@falconsfootball.com wrote at 1:37PM: _Yeaa. It's ssomthng to consider. I willlety ou know._

twhiddleston@ptclinic.com wrote at 1:38PM: _Are you ok? Where are you?_

hems@falconsfootball.com wrote at 1:43PM: _home. doc gave me neww pain plls. strong. im sleepy will sleep._

twhiddleston@ptclinic.com wrote at 1:43PM: _Will you be alright? How much did you take and when?_

twhiddleston@ptclinic.com wrote at 1:56PM: _Chris?_

The last thing he pictured before closing his eyes was the worried frown on Tom’s brow as he imagined him staring at the computer screen, waiting for Chris to reply. He meant to, he really did. But he swore he could feel the drugs hit his system, his leg beautifully without any feeling, weightless. His phone slipped from his fingers.

It was a dark kind of sleep. The kind that gave Chris dreams of shadowy hallways and swinging light bulbs, the kind of dreams that gave him the creeps, hearing echoed voices in cavernous rooms and fingers on his back. He jerked in his sleep, mumbling, his hands clenching.

He felt on fire and he shifted on the bed, seeking a cooler spot.

_Chris._

He could hear it. His name. Swiveling around in his dream, the dark hallway showed no one.

_Chris. Wake up._

He moaned. The medication wouldn’t relinquish its hold; it made him feel heavy and slow as he limped down that damn hallway…it never ended.

“Chris, how many of these did you take?”

And then his mind tried to buzz into alertness, but it was hard to place that voice. The hallway disappeared when he opened his eyes to a slit, the room blurry. But there was someone there. Someone tall and leaning over him. And then a hand on his forehead, cool and long, pushing back his hair. He leaned into it, groaning from the dizziness.

“How many?”

“Hmm?”

His eyes were closing again as he started to drift, but the bed dipped next to him, a cool hand cupping his neck, a little hesitantly.

“Chris. It’s me. Tom. From the clinic. I came to check on you. Your front door was unlocked.”

“Mmm, ssfine. Judy dinn’t lock it.” He could hear himself slur and tried to open his eyes again.

“Judy?”

He cleared his throat and tried to focus. What was Tom asking him? Judy? Wait, Tom was here? “She forgot her key. What are you—what are you doing here?”

He tried to sit up but that cool, gentle hand pushed him back down.

“Hang on. You still seem a little out of it. Take it easy a minute.” The voice was firm, but quiet and lovely.

“I only took two. Don’t know what the big deal is.” His throat kept catching when he tried swallowing.

Tom sighed. “Chris, you’re supposed to take one tablet every ten hours. That’s how strong these are. It’s not recommended to go over the dosage.” He held the bottle of pills in his hand.

Chris shrugged. “Whoops.” So what if he died. Who cared. Who would miss him? What was there to miss? But he froze at this thought. Dying had never really occurred to him. In his altered state, he couldn’t figure if he’d just discovered his answer to everything or if one’s mind really did get frazzled when under the influence. Was this…was this what he really thought, in the recesses of his mind? When sports casts and loud music and cool hands weren’t there to drown it out?

He turned over and got comfortable again, intent on ignoring those tiny questions in his head. The pull of sleep hovered over his consciousness and he was ready to let go and fall into it all over again. Tom’s hand slid over his neck as Chris turned, palming the other side. Chris rather liked the contact. Seemed like the last time he’d been touched by another human being was, well, by Tom during his previous appointment. And before that it was only the impersonal and inept touches of his doctors and coaches. And even before that he was being tackled to the spongy turf, his tendon snapping in two.

“It’s like a cave in here. Stifling.” Through his haze, he felt Tom shift on the bed.

“Mmm,” Chris agreed, Tom’s voice sounding farther away already. Wanting him to stay, he reached his hand up and laid it over Tom’s, their thumbs linking. A strange sense of contentment settled over him and he snuggled deeper into the pillow.

He liked to sleep in absolute darkness, drawing the blinds closed every evening. But it wasn’t evening and Chris was ready for a marathon sleep fest. How had it gotten to this point, he wondered vaguely.

But maybe Tom was talking about the heat. He couldn’t remember if he’d turned the air conditioning on, but it was almost too warm for April.

“Chris…”

He twitched, mumbling.

And then he was back in that hallway, bursts of light flashing in his face, shouts of his name, and out beyond the yawning mouth at the end of a tunnel, a sudden brightness, and then the crisp, cool green of a football field.

**

As if it were possible, it was even darker in his room when he woke up hours later.

“What…?” His mouth tasted of sand and his limbs were sore, his neck stuck at a stiff angle. He glanced around the room, feeling as if someone had just been there. Groaning, he sat up and saw a glass of water and a peach on his bedside table. Beneath them was a note.

_Take only one pill before bed. And the peach will make you feel better. – T._

So it wasn’t a dream. Tom had been here. He came to check on him. That was new.

Chris drank the water and took a bite of the peach, his hand drifting to touch his neck before he could stop himself.

**

The clinic was noticeably emptier than the other times he’d been there.

The receptionist, whose name he found out was Vanessa, shook her head when he asked about it.

“A lot of cancellations today. Not sure why. But it’s good to see you again, Mr. Hemsworth. Tom is in the break room. He’ll be right out to see you.”

He sat down stiffly, his gym bag on the floor by his feet. He was nervous about seeing Tom today. They hadn’t emailed or seen each other since he slept so hard the day before and Tom had been such a sudden apparition in his room, disappearing just as quickly. Well, he was sure it hadn’t happened exactly like that, but he had been under the medication’s pull, so it didn’t matter. If he closed his eyes when it was quiet enough, he could still recall the taste of the peach, its juices bursting over his tongue, the fuzzy skin and rough pockmarked core. Had he left the exposed pit on his nightstand?

Driving in had been painful, since he didn’t want to take another pill that would knock him out. He was seriously considering Tom’s offer of therapy sessions at home.

The door opened and Tom walked in carrying a mug of something steamy.

“Chris,” he said, smiling wide. Chris felt a tug somewhere in his stomach and swallowed thickly.

“Hey,” he said roughly. He stood and shuffled after Tom into one of the private rooms.

“How are you feeling?” Tom asked, sitting in the rolling chair while Chris took his spot on the work table.

“Fuzzy.”

Tom frowned. “Did you drive in?”

Chris avoided rolling his eyes at the last second. He looked down at Tom’s shoes instead. “Don’t start with me on that.”

Tom placed his mug of whatever on the floor and reached down to prop his leg on his knees, just like always. He bent his head over the swollen joint, examining it.

“I just don’t want you to get hurt,” he said softly, cool fingers pressing into the sensitive skin, which gave off a heat from the swelling.

“I’m already hurt,” he said, taking a swig of water from the bottle in his gym bag.

Tom looked up. “More hurt, then.”

Staring at him that closely, the cinnamon spots of brown stark against in his blue eyes, Chris wasn’t sure how to filter the emotion brewing just within his ribcage. He clenched his jaw and breathed out evenly through his nose, turning away before he gave in to the impulse to caress Tom’s face, like an itch over his fingers. Absurd.

Tom looked down and cleared his throat. “Sorry about going to your house uninvited. I just needed to see that you were okay.”

Chris hesitated, surprised. Tom was sorry? But Chris hadn’t been angry…right? He remembered a lot of their conversation, despite the haze of his medication. Tom asking him how much he’d taken, something about how hot it was in the room, Tom’s hand on his neck. No, Chris definitely hadn’t been angry. In fact, he’d been…pleased. It had been so long since someone braved becoming close to him that maybe he was only starting to remember what it was to be a friend. And falling asleep had been so much easier knowing Tom was there.

He glanced down as Tom lowered Chris’s leg and stood to get the elastic band from the peg on the wall so Chris could start his stretches. He wouldn’t look at him, which was unusual since Tom loved to make eye contact.

Chris took his time lying down and started his stretches, looping the band under his foot and pulling his leg as straight as he could. “It’s alright,” he conceded after a moment, and Tom paused where he stood at the foot of the table. “I almost expected you to be there when I woke up. But thanks for the water. I really needed it.”

Tom gave him a small, relieved smile. “No problem. You took too much of the pain medication.”

Chris grunted at a particularly hard stretch. “Noticed,” he wheezed.

“I got a note from your doctor. You okay with five sessions a week?”

Chris nodded, sweat gliding down his temple.

They were quiet the rest of the session, with only Tom murmuring for him to breathe in and out, counting his reps with him, his fingers tapping on his ankle or curving under his calf to support the weight when Chris started to shake.

He was sweating with the effort, or was it Tom’s presence? That cool clean scent, the three freckles on his neck that Chris eyed whenever Tom was turned away, the scar on the back of his left hand that Chris wanted to ask about but never did. His cheek dimpled on one side only and his tongue poked out between his teeth when he laughed a little more openly than usual. Which wasn’t often, as Chris knew he was the biggest sourpuss in the entire world and Tom had little reason to laugh when around him. But Tom was bursting with an inner happiness that practically glowed off his skin, smiling so easily, chuckling to himself when he made a joke while Chris barely cracked a smirk.

Whether or not Tom was trying to figure him out, Chris couldn’t be sure, aside from the few times he’d caught him staring at Chris before moving on to a new exercise in a hurry. But it couldn’t be more obvious that Tom had noticed his issues with anger, self-deprecation and borderline depression. Yet, he still was the most encouraging individual Chris had ever met, it nearly always aggravated Chris’s already bad temperament. It wasn’t so much that Tom’s good cheer grated on him; it was that he envied such obvious happiness. And he wished he could touch that happiness, gather Tom close to him, bury his face in that long neck with its three freckle constellation, breathe him in and let that absolute light suffuse into his skin. Maybe if he had access to Tom in a way that barred nothing between them, he could begin to find that bit of light within himself too.

But he closed his eyes to that thought, rather not wanting to envision something he knew was too good for him, even if Tom, with his sudden looks and lingering hands, might be showing more interest than before. Like the time the week before when Chris lay prone on the table, panting through the pain of a particularly trying exercise. Tom had talked him through it, keeping a hand fixed on his sternum with the other guiding his leg to lift higher. Just as his limb gave out, Tom caught it in hand and held it against his flat belly, running his fingers over his calf and under his knee, soothing him. How warm and strong his body had felt against his leg.

Chris had been shaking, on the verge of passing out, but he recalled with vivid clarity a pair of soft blue eyes, heavy with concern.

_It’s alright. I’ve got you._

Chris would taint that heart. As he’d tainted his own. And he wouldn’t bear to live with himself if he did.

It was becoming all too clear to Chris, despite the obvious necessity of his profession, that Tom was a toucher. From that first moment his fingers pressed into Chris’s swollen knee, or the time he touched his chest in concern just before Chris first lashed out at him, Tom liked to keep constant contact. And he wasn’t sure if this was something he did with everyone, but there was something about the way the touch lingered that made Chris think that wasn’t the case. And he started to look forward to his sessions, despite the pain of rehabilitating his leg. He wanted to feel those long fingers, his body hovering close when Chris attempted a difficult exercise, hand on his elbow or waist to steady him.

By now, he would have lashed out more than once. He would have narrowed his eyes at whomever dared touch him, used his size to intimidate others until they backed away. But not Tom. And while his touch still made him uneasy, he didn’t not like it.

He didn’t know what to feel.

At the end of yet another session, as Tom massaged the swelling up and out of his leg, Chris let his head loll against the cushioned work table, the ceiling lights too bright in his bleary vision. His appointments always fatigued him. He wanted sleep. And he wanted to have another body with him when he did. A tall lanky body. Golden and happy.

Tom, eyeing him as he worked, looked like he wanted to touch his forehead again, maybe push his hair back like he did at his house. But he stopped at the last second, slowly unwrapping the ice blanket from Chris’s legs. He pressed his foot on the small pad beneath the table and it started to lower with an electronic whine.

Chris made to sit up and Tom helped him with a hand on his shoulder until his feet were planted on the floor.

Grabbing a moist towel, Tom knelt in front of him and started wiping any residual clumps of lotion that had hardened on his skin with the ice pack.

Chris watched him, swallowing hard, fingers twitching at his sides.

And just when Chris thought he had regained control of himself, Tom looked up at him. His blue eyes were big and sweet under those light brown lashes, curling up beautifully.

He gave his leg a last perfunctory wipe and spoke softly.

“You need to rest, Chris.”

Chris shrugged. “I do. I lie around all day. Watch games.” He didn’t tell him about his almost manic workout routine, as he believed Tom wouldn’t approve.

“No. I mean. You need to sleep. You look exhausted.”

“You mean I look like shit.”

Tom lifted his head, a frown on his brow. “No, I don’t mean that at all.”

Chris bit his tongue, breathing in slowly.

Tom straightened and planted a foot on the floor to stand. The movement brought their faces close together and he paused, hesitant, eyes roving over Chris's face.

When he didn’t move, Chris took a risk and raised his hand, touching Tom’s jaw gently. He grazed his thumb along that sharp cheekbone, riveted by how Tom leaned into it, eyes never closing, not even a blink.

And then Chris’s courage broke and he stood quickly, pulse racing, sweat on his brow. Tom remained frozen on the floor. He collected his bag and limped out of the clinic. But before he left, he paused just before the exit. He looked back as Tom appeared in the doorway of the evaluation room, eyes searching for Chris.

He smiled slowly, his dimple appearing like a half moon.

In his hand he gripped the peach Chris had left for him on the worktable.

Despite himself Chris blushed and ducked his head, limping through the door and away.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely duskyhuedladysatan <3

[twhiddleston@ptclinic.com](mailto:twhiddleston@ptclinic.com) wrote at 5:59PM:

_Chris, thank you for the peach. It was very thoughtful. It got me through my last few appointments. Listen, if I hurt your feelings when I said you looked tired, I am terribly sorry. I didn’t mean that in the slightest. But I am concerned about the amount of sleep you’re getting. I know rehabilitating a limb is extremely frustrating, but I think we’re making great progress on your leg. Already you’ve added a few more degrees to your range of motion, even if stiffness and swelling are still an issue. On top of it, our sessions are arduous and it does take a toll on your body and mind. I always worry when you leave, knowing you’re driving under what I consider to be duress, fatigue being a major factor in automobile accidents. I’m not trying to pry. But as a health care provider, I feel it is my responsibility to remind you of my license to make home visits. This won’t change anything. Your sessions will be just like the ones in the clinic, only in the comfort of your home, where you can rest immediately afterward instead of fighting traffic. Please think on it. Best, Tom._

Chris lay in bed and read it over again. Tom had sent it the previous evening, just after he’d crawled under the covers and passed out. He’d made no mention of their tiny (what? moment?) physical contact, but then again, what could he have said? In all honesty, Chris didn’t blame him for not bringing it up. Things like that tended to be awkward and lead to strained attempts at filling a silence everyone knew was better left empty.

He’d slept for thirteen hours, but somehow felt worse than before. His leg ached, but he was hesitant to take a pill after sleeping so damn long. The body wasn’t meant to be stationary for such an extended period of time, especially for an athlete whose main goal in life was constant movement, constant advancement, constant violence.

Tom’s email kept scrolling behind his eyelids. Of course he hadn’t forgotten his offer to continue his sessions at home. Chris had thought of it, frequently, imagining what having Tom in his house would feel like, the echo of his voice on the high ceilings, his bare feet imprinted on the tiled floors like evaporating smoke, spotting a tall shadow step into his bedroom, glimpse of dark curls and dimpled cheek before disappearing into the door.

_This won’t change anything_ , Tom had written. But a part of Chris knew it would change everything.

The stoic environment at the clinic provided a measure of distance he felt he needed in order to prevent things from spiraling out of his control. There had been moments when Chris had barely been able to rein in his desire to grab Tom up and…what? Kiss him? Pull him flush against his chest just to feel that heart beating within? To know, finally, if Tom would struggle to get away or curl himself tighter around him? Somehow, he felt he already knew the answer to that question and that reality didn’t help ease his fear of being hurt, of further rejection, of ruining something so beautiful.

Of finally having, only to lose.

“Fuck it.” He dragged himself to the edge of the bed and yanked open his drawer. Better to lie in the darkest sleep than think of something that wouldn’t be.

Unsnapping the lid to his pain medication, he dry swallowed a tablet and tossed the bottle back into the drawer. He stood up shakily. He shuffled into the bathroom and put his mobile on the tank of the toilet as he emptied his bladder. He brushed his teeth and stared at his reflection, despising and pitying the dark bruises under his eyes, the hollow shadow at his cheeks, the days of stubble growing so steadily there.

Stripping off his clothes, he started the shower and climbed in very carefully, lifting his right leg in a straight line to protect the joint.

But he must have stepped wrong. His foot must have missed the necessary grip because the terrible sound of flesh sliding on porcelain hit his ears and then he was falling. Pure instinct told him to tighten his leg, bring it back under him, but he cried out as fire burst through his knee, shutting down his leg entirely.

He collapsed against the wall, his hands scrambling to stop his descent to the tiled floor. He landed hard on his tailbone, pain lancing up his back. The showerhead continued to rain hot water on his trembling body as he lay curled, clawed hands bracketed over his knee, trying to ease the awful throbbing that had started up. He was suddenly catapulted back to that day on the field, the horror of injury so fresh and damning.

“No…” he moaned, tears and drops of water blinding him. Had he torn it again? Had all these months gone by just so that he’d need surgery again, recover through it all _again_?

“Please,” he sobbed, but no one heard him. Blinking fast, he tried to think, but already his mind was being numbed by the medication. What day was it? Would Judy arrive later in the morning? His weekdays were all scrambled and he couldn’t remember anything through the red mist that had obscured his vision.

Gasping, he tried to lift himself but crumpled back down, the steady beat of water on his chest only adding to his panic.

His phone. He lifted his head and saw it on the toilet tank, only feet from him.

Very carefully, he rose to his elbows and rotated his torso, trying his best not to dislodge his leg. He stretched his arm toward the toilet, fingers shaking with the effort to simply…just… _reach_.

His middle finger barely skimmed the edge. Biting back the pain that rolled like a wave from the crown of his head to his little toe, he inhaled and swiped at the device, crashing back down to the floor with a cry. The phone clattered to the lid of the toilet, settling on the edge, balanced precariously.

Blinking slowly, he took a moment to breathe, chest heaving.

“You can do this, Christopher,” he muttered, gritting his teeth and lunging again. His finger brushed over the home button and he double clicked it fast, falling back into the shower with a groan as the monotonous voice of his phone assistant came on.

“How can I help you?”

It didn’t occur to him to call for an ambulance. Nausea spooled through his stomach at the thought of anyone else touching him, finding him there in a naked sobbing heap, already imagining the rumors that would spring up with words like ‘overdose’ and ‘suicide attempt’ and ‘tragic loss’ and complete _bullshit_. He gulped in air. “Call…therapy clinic.”

“One moment.”

He heard the sound of ringing and then Vanessa the receptionist’s voice came on the line. “It’s a wonderful day for physical therapy, how can I help you?”

“Please…I need to speak with Tom. Is Tom there?”

“He is here. But he is with a patient. Can I take a message?”

“Please! It’s very important. It’s urgent I speak with him.”

She must have caught on to his desperation because she hesitated before saying, “Let me see if I can pull him aside. Can you hold?”

“Yes,” he whispered, not sure if she heard him. But his body was starting to loosen from the pain medication and he realized with sudden hilarity that he should have eaten something with his pill. Maybe if he had eaten a meal he wouldn’t be on the shower floor. _Or maybe you’d be lying at the bottom of the stairs with a broken neck, Christopher._

He sobbed quietly and felt his mind dip. Alarmed, he gritted his teeth to stay conscious.

A burst of noise over the phone and then Tom’s voice. “Hello?”

Chris felt tears sting his eyes anew. “Tom,” he gasped.

“Chris? Chris, is that you? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

_He recognized me_ , Chris thought absurdly.

“No. I…slipped and I think—Tom, I’m—.”

“Where are you? Chris, are you home?” He whispered something unintelligible to someone, words muffled in the speaker.

“Yes. I’m home. In…the shower.” He groaned and grasped his thigh as pain spiraled through the muscle, like a tiny spiked worm.

“Okay, stay calm. I’ll be right there. I’ll ring you on my mobile. Will you be able to pick up?”

“I—I think so.” He considered the distance he’d have to reach again to answer the call, but he would do it. To hear that voice, he would do it.

“Hang on a bit, Chris. I’ll be right there.” And then he was gone.

Chris had half a mind to realize the pain was dulling with the effectiveness of the medication, but he was still afraid to move his leg.

His phone started ringing and he gathered what strength he had left to lunge again and swipe the screen to answer it. The phone skid a few inches, falling off the toilet to the soft round carpet at the base.

“Chris? You there?”

Tom’s voice echoed in the steamy bathroom. Chris clutched his chest.

“Yes. I’m here.”

“Good. Tell me what happened. I’m driving there now.”

Chris took a deep breath and explained how he’d tried stepping into the shower but had fallen. “I took a pill just before but I think it was too soon for that to be the reason. I’m only just feeling it start to work as I’ve been lying here.” He sniffed, trying to steady his shaking voice.

His eyes were closing. The water falling on him acted like a metronome, lulling him into the thick, heavy sleep he familiarized with his pain medication.

Tom was saying something. “When I get there, will the door be unlocked?”

Chris thought hard. “Yes. I mean…no. It’s locked.” He’d given his spare key to Judy when she started working for him. “But my back door, by the veranda, has a keypad entry. You can come in through there.” He gave him the code and turned his head, the light in the bathroom too bright for him, spiking over his vision.

“I can barely hear you, Chris. Don’t fall asleep. I’m nearly there.”

“I…won’t. I’m just…resting my….”

“Chris, listen to me.”

He mumbled something, fingers twitching on the cold tiled floor.

**

And then hands were on him, cupping his face, smoothing back his hair.

“Oh god, Chris.”

Chris moaned and shifted, hands jerking, water puddled under his fingers.

“No, darling, don’t move. Let me take a look first.”

The water was turned off and the bathroom was suddenly loud in all its silence. Chris heard Tom moving around, kneeling on the floor beside him. Chris realized he was very much naked, but didn’t have the strength to cover himself.

He tried opening his eyes but a wave of vertigo hit him and he whimpered, closing them tight again.

“It’s okay,” Tom whispered, somewhere low on his body. He touched his knee. “Swelling looks just a tad worse. But no more than I expected. That’s a good thing.” He rotated his leg very carefully, but Chris barely flinched. “Did you feel or hear anything pop when you fell?”

Trying to remember, Chris shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Good. We’ll request another MRI, though. To make sure. If the ligament tore again, you need to get that fixed immediately.”

Before he could stop himself, Chris started crying quietly. Fat tears dripped from his eyes and slid down his temples into his hair.

Tom must have noticed because he crawled closer and cupped his face again. “No, no, darling. It’s alright. Don’t cry. We don’t know yet if the repair on your ligament was damaged.”

Chris was shaking his head, already negating the fact that he might be okay, that for once luck might be on his side. It had never been like that before, it wouldn’t be like that now.

“Shh, there now. Let’s get you dry and off this floor.”

Chris parted his eyes just enough to catch Tom staring at his chest, eyes widening slightly, before he stood and reached for a towel. There were wet patches on the front of Tom’s jeans.

_I’m sorry,_ Chris wanted to say, but focused instead on not vomiting.

Tom patted dry his face and hair first, thumb lingering by his cheekbone, eyes crinkling in worry, and then moved to his chest and torso, whispering a quiet ‘oh darling’, brows furrowed in concern. He hesitated by his crotch, hovering the towel over it before pressing down and moving lower to dry his legs.

“You’re too heavy for me to lift on my own. So I need you to get your good leg under you and I will push you up from behind. Okay?”

Chris had enough clarity to understand and nodded feebly.

Maneuvering himself behind him, Tom hooked his hands under Chris’s arms and lifted him to a sitting position, letting him rest back on his chest, his head lolling weakly on Tom's shoulder.

“Okay, bend your leg. That’s it. Now when you’re ready to push up, do it. I’ll follow your lead.”

Chris focused on his task, reminding himself that there wasn’t very much pain now and all he had to do was push. Squaring himself, Chris shoved down on his good leg and Tom lifted him with a grunt.

Chris felt the world tilt as he rose to a standing position, his hands coming up to brace himself against the wall. He rested his cheek on the tile, hearing Tom breathe behind him.

“Good. Are you alright?” When Chris nodded, Tom kept a hand on his waist, his other touching his knee. “Can you put any weight on it?”

“Let me try.”

He lowered his foot until it was planted on the floor and tested it. There was some discomfort, but in his haze he couldn’t tell if that was because the medication had muted whatever damage he might have caused, or if his knee was actually fine. Well, as fine as it had been before his fall.

“I think I can walk.”

“Here, lean on me. I know you’re a bit dizzy, but we’ll get you to bed just fine.”

Tom took Chris’s arm and wrapped it over his shoulder, holding his waist.

As they staggered out of the shower, Chris caught his reflection in the mirror and he blinked fast, confused. Long red lines ran from his chest to navel, as if he’d scratched at himself repeatedly. Was that why Tom had stared at his chest so funny? Before he could think more on it, they stepped into his freezing room.

“Shit. I didn’t think to turn the air off,” Tom murmured as Chris started to shake. The back of his body was still wet and the cold air clung to him like a dense blanket.

As Tom lowered him to the bed, Chris’s teeth began to chatter. Moving fast, Tom pulled back the lush comforter and helped Chris lift his legs up onto the mattress.

But dread took hold of Chris at that moment. Dread of falling back into those dark tunnels, of strange hands touching him. That familiar crushing helplessness swept through him and his heart jumped in fear. He reached for Tom, grabbing hold of his shirt.

“Don’t go. Please…don’t—.” His chattering teeth and wet sobs didn’t even bother him, not at that moment. Not when he was being honest with someone for the first time in a long time.

Tom froze when Chris clutched at him, but after a small hesitation, his face broke open and he leaned down, brushing back his hair again.

“I won’t go. I’ll stay right here with you. Let me just turn the fan off at least. One second.”

He let his hand slip from Tom’s shirt, watching with slit eyes as he hurried to the switch by the bedroom door. Flicking it off, he came back to the bed and after hesitating a moment, shrugged out of his shoes and crawled under the covers on the other side.

It was quiet. Chris couldn’t stop looking at Tom, made nearly blurry through his tired eyes and the dimness of the room.

“I’m sorry…I—I took you away from your w-work.”

Tom shook his head and smiled. “Nonsense. That’s why we have therapy assistants. I was nearly done with my appointment and I had one of the assistants finish up.” He looked down. “I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t want to.”

Chris blinked slowly, his mind fighting to stay conscious.

“Thank you,” Tom continued softly. “For calling me.”

“I didn’t…know who…I mean, I have no one. I don’t—you’re the only one I feel…comfortable around. I couldn’t bear the thought of another person…touching me.”

Tom’s brow crinkled in what Chris thought might be affection.

“You can sleep now, Chris. I’ll be right here.” He caressed his shoulder, letting his hand glide down his arm, squeezing his elbow gently.

But that small touch wasn’t enough, not now that Chris felt so close to falling off that edge in his mind that led him back to those dreams. He inched his hand across the mattress and curled it in the front of Tom’s shirt again, tugging weakly.

Tom came willingly, closing the space between them and opening his arms to let Chris curl up against his chest. Burying his face in that neck, _finally_ , so warm, that pulse so strong against his eyelids. Arms wrapped around his back and the blanket drew tight around their bodies. His chills began to cease almost immediately. Having been touch-starved for so long, Chris moaned in broken relief to have that long body next to him, just as he imagined.

“Hush now. I’m here. It’s alright.” Fingers stroked his wet hair, combing it back, tucking it behind his ears. 

He hadn’t realized he’d been mumbling, trying to get as close to Tom as he possibly could. But they settled into a shared weight, Chris finally succumbing to his fatigue, Tom’s scent following him down.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely duskyhuedladysatan <3

He was swimming. His body felt so light and weightless as he pushed through that water, breaking it with even strokes. There was no effort; the glide was smooth and relaxing.

But he needed to breathe. Staring up at the sky through the water’s surface, he pushed off the bottom and burst into the frigid air, taking in great gulps of it.

_Chris?_

Sinking back into those murky depths, he heard his name.

_You’re dreaming. Chris, wait…_

Something moved against him.

Just as his dream dissolved and Chris fought sluggishly to wake up, he realized he was hard, a fierce desire shining through his stupor.

There was a warm body in his arms—or rather, he was in that person’s arms, a long leg tangled between his own, and his face was being stroked, each touch urging him closer, prompting his desire to swell just beneath his daze.

The person gasped and Chris zeroed in on that noise, turning his face to rub their cheeks together, nudging his forehead against their jaw. Needing to be closer, he listened to those hitched breaths and curved a hand over that trim waist, bringing their crotches together, his skin seeking that smooth, warm—wait, why was there material in his way?

_Darling…_

He practically purred at that, pushing his hips down, delighted to feel a hard length next to his own.

_Please wake up. I want to see you._

But he couldn’t. His eyes were so heavy. Instinctively, his hips shoved down and they both groaned. And then Tom—because of course it was Tom, he was here and in his arms and only he had called Chris ‘darling’ in ages it seemed—lifted his hips to meet him. Gathering him close, Chris rested his head on Tom’s shoulder and thrust hard, over and over, Tom’s body rocking beneath him.

_Oh…god, Chris. Please…yes._

Shifting his leg in the wrong direction, Chris choked out a small cry, a spark of pain shooting up his leg. He unintentionally tightened his grasp on Tom’s hips.

“Oh!” Tom gasped and whined low in his throat, shifting his hips harder onto Chris, rubbing them together until he came with a sharp breath.

As monumental of an effort as it was, Chris forced his eyes open, catching the tossed back head, that long throat cast in a blushing pink hue, lips open, eyes rolled back, lashes fluttering.

Moving just an inch was all it took for Chris to come at that moment, groaning and falling forward onto Tom’s chest. He felt his seed spilling onto his own thigh but his head was buzzing with lights, his skin over sensitized, twitching when long fingers caressed his neck.

His last thought was worry for Tom, who must have felt crushed by his weight, but arms pulled him closer not away, and Chris fell back into a somewhat startled sleep.

**

Light. Why was there light?

He cracked open an eye and was blinded by the light spilling from the open bathroom door. Lifting up on his forearms, Chris blinked to clear his vision and peered into the other room.

Long legs moved on the floor, as if a person was kneeling, wiping at something.

“Tom?”

The legs scrambled up and then Tom appeared in the doorway, wearing Chris’s own team sweatpants.

“Hey,” he said.

“What are you doing?” He cleared his throat because whoa, frog.

“Cleaning the water in the bathroom.”

“What?” And then it came back him. The fall. The phone call. He flexed his leg, unsure if it felt different. “You don’t have to do that. Judy will get it.”

“Judy?” The innocent curiosity was only slightly forced and Chris felt the ridiculous need to hide his smile.

“My housekeeper.”

Tom blushed. “Oh.”

“Why are you wearing—.” But then he stopped, horror making his eyes widen. He remembered swimming and pushing until he found warmth, coming and… _Jesus._

He’d never forced himself on anyone before, never. The league made all the players attend seminars on what qualified as consent because wasn’t it always every other season that some player was in court on charges for rape or assault?

First his knee and now this and…

Chris felt sick.

“Tom, oh god.” He sat up, wincing. “I’m sorry. I can’t believe I—did I hurt you? Are you okay?” He couldn’t bear to look at Tom. He buried his face in his hands.

Tom hurried over to him, kneeling by the bed and taking his wrists. His other hand wrapped around his bicep, trying to get Chris to look at him.

“Stop. Chris, stop. You did not hurt me. And you did not force me.” He swiped a thumb over Chris's eyebrow soothingly. “Take that look off your face. I could have easily removed myself from your side. But I didn’t.” He laughed quietly. “As often as I have thought of us being… _intimate_ …I always pictured you awake.”

Chris flushed red, his eyes lowering, ashamed. Did Tom really think of them… _intimately,_ too? But people usually fled from Chris, afraid and tired of him…didn’t they?

“But you weren’t yourself. I understand that. And frankly, I made a bit of a mess in my pants. So I borrowed these and put my trousers to wash.”

“I’m sorry,” Chris whispered, a feeling of heavy guilt settling on his shoulders.

Tom touched his hair. “Don’t be. I’m not. You don’t remember?”

“A little,” he admitted.

“Well, I wasn’t exactly fighting you off.”

Chris swallowed. “I just—I asked you to stay and if I hadn’t, then—.”

“It’s okay to ask for help. You were hurt. You were uneasy. You’d just taken a spill. Chris, you can come to me for help.”

He rubbed his face and sighed. “Okay,” he whispered.

Tom smiled. “I took the liberty of calling your team doctor for an MRI. The number was on the cabinet above the sink. And I heated up some food that was in your fridge. You should eat something before we go to your appointment at four.”

“We?”

“Well, I’m driving you. Unless,” he frowned and pulled back a bit. “Unless you don’t want me to.”

Panic set into Chris again and he nodded. “I would.”

Tom smiled and Chris felt the corners of his lips start to lift in response.

**

Chris dressed himself while Tom was downstairs changing back into his newly washed trousers. He'd offered to help but Chris declined as politely as he could—which basically meant he shook his head and said 'no'—because he didn't want to feel more like an invalid than he already did.

Snippets of what happened that morning kept creeping into his mind. Slipping, crashing to the floor, his frantic phone call, Tom's voice, his hands on his face.

Chris closed his eyes and the memories sharpened. Tom arching beneath him, the quiet gasps, those lashes trembling, his thumb tracing Chris's brow.

 _Fuck_.

It had been months since Chris had sought the company of another person in bed. Shortly before his injury actually. And there was no way he intended on letting another person see him as he was now. Even though he was in the best shape of his life, his leg was a great shame to him. A symbol of his glaring weakness. He couldn't even fuck someone properly if he tried, much less hold him close and love him as he deserved.

He sat back and rubbed his eyes wearily.

He was pulling on a well-worn T-shirt when he heard Tom come bounding lightly up the stairs.

 _Like a goddamn antelope_ , Chris thought with barely concealed affection.

"Ready?" Tom asked, stepping into his room.

"Yeah. Just need my shoes."

"Here, let me," Tom said, coming forward and kneeling in front of him. He reached for the trainers put away just beneath the bed and began untying them, head down.

Chris swallowed, eyes on Tom before him, his focus the sharpest it had been in days. "You don't..." he said, shame reddening his face. "You don't have to."

"It's nothing," Tom said. "And I don't want you to strain yourself bending unnecessarily."

Familiar with the feel of Tom's hands on his legs, Chris watched as Tom lifted his ankle and propped each foot on his knee, slipping his trainers on and lacing them comfortably. When he was done, Tom made a move to get up, leaning forward, reaching his hands to help Chris stand.

That's when Chris grabbed his wrist, Tom stilling immediately at the contact.

The look on Tom's face was hard to discern. Expectant, but distant. In case Chris pulled away, just like the time before at the clinic? Chris didn't like that he couldn't read him. He had a sudden and fierce desire to know everything about him, what made him sad or outraged, or what he found ridiculously funny. Probably those stupid rom-coms, Chris thought, already imagining Tom curling close to him on the couch, folding his long legs under him, propping a bowl of popcorn for the both of them to share. He wanted to know what gave Tom unbridled joy, what made him angry or upset. He wanted to know _who_ might have made him angry or upset, just the thought of it enough to make Chris boil.

Anxious to prove himself somehow, he leaned forward and brushed his cheek against Tom's, his own prickly from going without a shave in some days, Tom's smooth and soft, only the lightest stubble growing along his jaw.

Chris almost whimpered, Tom smelled so good. He nudged his nose along Tom's temple, something like butterflies alighting in his stomach when Tom's hand wrapped around his bicep, his head shifting lower, prolonging the contact.

"Chris," Tom whispered, forehead pressed against him.

"Thank you, Tom," he said, drawing back to see his face. "I never thanked you. For last night. For coming to me, for helping me. But even before that. The weeks of therapy, when I was awful to you. You deserved better. You deserved a better patient, someone who treated you... _better_." He stopped, looking down, frustrated with his lack of fancy words, his inability to explain. Tom inched closer.

"Hey," he said, taking Chris's hands in his, and Chris was thrown by how very much he'd been longing to feel them with his own, instead of just on his legs, so enshrouded with the veil of appropriate behavior and necessity. Tom was choosing to touch him now and it wasn't to soothe a physical ache, although Chris somehow knew Tom was selfless enough to do that outside of work. It wasn't because it was his job, but because he wanted to.

The pearly crescent, sickle-shaped scar on the back of Tom’s left hand caught Chris’s eye for a short second before Tom spoke.

"Chris, the past few months have been hard on you. I’m sensing that you've had some unexpected, difficult self-reflection take place and it can be a hard thing to swallow. You've experienced first hand the pain of an injury that robs you of your life's work and you might wonder, what are you left with? Certainly, I feel like you've probably lost people you thought were your friends? You're in this big house all the time, coping with a complicated recovery all by yourself."

Chris gritted his teeth, half angry and half relieved to finally hear someone else say what he'd been figuring out on his own, painfully.

"But this doesn't have to be the end of something in your life. The pressure of regaining your health, of your coaches and teammates demanding you be ready by a certain time. All of that is incredibly taxing." Their fingers twined together and Chris glanced down at them, riveted by their differences. Tom's long and pale fingers, thin against his slightly thicker, yet just as long fingers, tanned from his hours of playing in the sun.

"But," Tom continued, his voice softening, "it's entirely doable. We have many months left yet to get your knee back in working order. I'm not going to lie and say it will be easy. But that is one thing you have control over. Another is how you see _yourself_. You are weighed down by self-judgment, darling. You don't have to do that to yourself."

Chris sighed and squeezed Tom's fingers, the feel of them enough to make his pulse race. "I wish it were that easy, mate."

Tom nodded and reached up to cup his cheek, Chris's eyes following his hand, a little guarded. "I know. When alone, anything is hard. But you don't have to be alone," he said, bringing their joined hands to his chest. "Not anymore. I am willing to help you, if you would let me."

Chris stared back at him, experience warning him to be cautious, to be aloof, to let anger be his forefront emotion.

But he simply couldn't, not with Tom. At least, he couldn't be aloof with him, not when Tom had the patience and kind heart to see past his spontaneous rage and wary distance. To ignore this would be a great injustice to the progress they had made. As friends? As more?

But Chris felt he would always be cautious and angry. It was so a part of his nature, deeply embedded in his consciousness, a defining part of his character.

But he could never use that against Tom.

He nodded, back stiffening, unsure of what to say, slightly ashamed of how well Tom could articulate his feelings.

As if sensing that Chris was ready to bolt, Tom took his face in both hands and kissed him.

Shock froze Chris. Desire bloomed in his belly and he nearly melted in the feeling, but Chris hesitated, not even remembering when the last time was he'd kissed someone. But those thin lips were not as he'd imagined. They were better, warmer. They were soft and giving, moving over his gently. And the small sound Tom made in the back of his throat, the small quick breaths, had Chris moaning quietly, clasping Tom’s face and deepening the kiss, their tongues touching tentatively, curiously.

When they finally parted, breathing shallow, foreheads grazing, Tom smiled shyly and looked down, a rosy blush spreading over his cheeks.

"Holy shit," Chris murmured and threw an arm around Tom's neck, crushing him to his chest.

Tom's laughter, muffled, spread through Chris, an even warmth, a reminder of what he'd been missing, of what he might be worthy of having.

**

They stood at the top of the stairs. From that angle, it looked plenty steep.

"I could have sworn there were fewer of them," Chris muttered, closing his eyes at the sight.

"It does look daunting. But don't look all the way down." Tom laughed to himself quietly. "If you’ll pardon the pun, but let's take this one step at a time." He smiled at Chris, and where Chris expected anger to rise up at the cheesy line, he found genuine amusement. Tom, frankly, was adorable.

"Okay, arm over my shoulder and hand on the banister. That's it."

Chris grimaced as they took their first step together, Tom supporting his weight on his bad side. Gripping his waist, Tom huffed and talked him through it, giving small encouragements, "You're doing great", "Just another step, there you go", "Almost there, don't give up on me."

About half way down, Chris, short of breath and biting back groans of pain, asked for a break. They relaxed against the bannister, both resolutely refusing to see how many steps were left. Chris leaned over the rail, calculating how long it would take an object to hit the ground.

Keeping a hand on Chris's back, Tom stared around at the large foyer. After a moment, he ended the contact and Chris turned his head, almost asking why. "I don't mean to sound assuming, but have you considered staying in one of the rooms downstairs, at least while you are still in the rather delicate part of your recovery?"

Chris sighed. "I'd thought about it. To tell you the truth, I slept downstairs for a few weeks after my surgery, when I had to wear a leg brace 24 hours a day. I didn't think I'd need to make that decision again so soon."

Tom's hand, after a slight hesitation was back on his shoulder blade, rubbing small circles. Chris closed his eyes in relief. However many steps were left, Chris knew he’d make it there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok wow compared to the monster chapters in Stray Not, these look like tiny little blinks *_* I'm sorry!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely duskyhuedladysatan <3

Finally hobbling down the rest of the way, Tom helped Chris down the front steps, another daunting task that had Chris clinging closer into Tom’s one-armed embrace.

Reading his dismay, Tom murmured to him quietly, “Just a few more. It’s alright.”

They were sweating by the time Chris collapsed into the passenger seat of his car, a full forty minutes after leaving his room. A spike of pain twisted from tailbone to shoulder blades, still sore from landing on it so hard in the shower.

He had to scoot the seat all the way back so he wouldn’t strain his sore back or need to bend his leg when he lifted it in.

“Seat belt,” Tom said, and Chris tossed him a look Tom returned with equal measure. Refusing to start the car until Chris obeyed, Tom smiled his thanks when Chris finally sighed and buckled in.

Blasting the air conditioning, Chris groaned as the cool air hit his face, his overheated skin tightening with subdued pleasure. Fighting a wave of dizziness, he scrambled to hold onto the armrest as Tom reversed and started down the long driveway, taking to the streets with extreme care.

Wanting to settle his eyes on something concrete and not what sped by his window, Chris turned and watched Tom with squinted eyes, not quite believing he was in that car, in that moment, with him. He still felt loopy and drained of energy. Maybe it was the pain medication still in his system or maybe it was the arduous task of slowly skidding down twenty two steps, at the bottom of which he once truly believed lay certain death, but he eventually rested his head back and closed his eyes, groaning again as another wave of nausea rolled over him. The movement of the car gave him a slight anxiety, so much different from when he was in the driver’s seat. Repeatedly opening his eyes to check that they weren’t about to collide into a tree, Chris shifted uneasily and often.

His skin felt tight and dry under his clothing. His blunt nails did almost nothing against the maddening itch he scratched along his ribs and stomach. Gazing down at his chest that morning as he put his clothes on, the long red lines had startled him. Tracing a finger down the length of one had only started up the itch again, only worse.

He felt his mind dip suddenly and he mumbled, shifting again to stay conscious.

And then a warm hand slipped into his own, and he lifted his head in surprise. Tom continued to drive without saying a word, but glanced at him once, a small smile on his face.

Not daring to believe that this might become a normal part of his life, Chris squeezed those slim fingers and laced them with his own before tucking their joined hands against his hip. He relaxed against the seat and drifted into a light doze.

When he opened his eyes again, Tom was pulling into the parking lot at the sports clinic. He hadn’t let Chris go. Chris half expected to wake up to find his hand empty, but Tom kept their fingers laced, even after he parked and shut the car off. They stared at each other.

“Ready?” Tom asked softly.

Chris looked out at the clinic’s entrance, inside of which he’d spent many of the most painful hours of his short life. More metal tubes to lie in, more insincere smiles and gossip. Only this time Tom would be with him. He wouldn’t be alone.

“Yes,” he replied, realizing that simple fact could make all the difference.

But as he opened his door, a blast of heat hit his face and he slumped against the seat, feeling faint.

“Easy now,” Tom said, coming around the back of the car and taking his hands, helping him to sit up. "I still think you should have eaten something."

Feeling nauseous after their treacherous descent down the stairs back at the house, Chris had declined food, even when Tom insisted it would help settle his stomach. “I’ll only retch all over you,” he’d said, fingers tightening in Tom’s shirt for balance.

As soon as he managed to stand, Chris braced a hand against the car, trying to steady his reeling mind.

“Just wait,” he whispered, catching his breath. “Until I have my strength back.” Vision spinning, he held his other hand loosely around the back of Tom’s neck, trying not to keel over. “I’m going to fuck you against every wall I can find.”

Tom turned shocked eyes to him and then blushed red. He looked down, smiling. “Well,” he said, clearing his throat and laughing quietly. “I certainly look forward to that. Greatly. But I think you’re still a bit under the influence, darling.” He cupped Chris’s cheek and Chris leaned into the touch, wanting and needing a dark corner to lie down in, Tom’s body curled next to his. “We’ll get you better yet. We all know what they say about sexual healing…” He smiled, that half moon dimple appearing on his right cheek, his eyes crinkling with mirth.

Chris felt his heart somersault. “You’re so pretty,” he murmured.

Tom’s face brightened with a blush so lovely and glowing. He looked down, clearly flustered.

And then Chris felt himself tipping forward, his equilibrium thrown.

Tom caught him fast, wrapping his arms around Chris’s waist, holding him upright. Chris closed his eyes, fighting back the urge to push Tom against the car right that moment.

“It's alright. I've got you. We’re nearly done here. Just one MRI and I need to speak to your doctor. And then it’s back home where you can sleep uninterrupted, as I know you need, so you can regain your strength and motivation to get better. Okay?”

Chris nodded after a moment.

Tom locked the car and together they limped across the lot. Chris tried to keep his weight off Tom as much as possible, but his leg was throbbing and his head was pounding and the lean muscle of Tom’s shoulders was such a comfort, an anchor to the earth itself.

None of it felt right. He needed to sleep this off, get his mind clear. How was he expected to heal and participate in therapy if he couldn’t even stand upright by himself?

Inside the elevator and down the hallway, Tom kept an arm wrapped around his waist, and then later when Chris checked in with the receptionist, he placed his hand on the small of Chris’s back, guiding him, ready to react in case Chris swayed or tripped.

They waited a half hour before a nurse called his name. In that time, Chris sank into a seat in the corner, where less prying eyes could follow his halting progress across the clinic lobby.

He couldn’t seem to grasp his equilibrium. The edge of his sight kept tilting, so that he felt unbalanced and unsure of his footing. It was more frustrating than his damn knee injury. Chris groaned quietly, closing his eyes to the spinning room.

Letting his head recline against the wall behind him, he felt along the armrest between his and Tom’s chairs until his fingers found Tom’s wrist, circling it, needing that sense of security to hold him steady. Closing his eyes to the slanting room, he willed himself to relax and breathe.

When the nurse called him to the back, Tom jumped to his feet and held his hands out to Chris, who took them and lifted with a grunt.

“Your friend can wait here for you until you—.”

Chris stared down at her. “He’s coming in.”

Maybe it was his feverish eyes, half lidded; or maybe it was how he swayed and clasped at Tom’s shoulder; or maybe it was his considerable height and how he loomed over her. But she nodded quickly and stepped ahead to lead the way.

Tom put his hand on Chris’s elbow. “Easy now,” he whispered.

Chris clenched his jaw and nodded, following the woman.

Just outside his examination room, he limped onto a scale and was weighed, noting that he’d lost six pounds since his last visit.

“Go ahead and change into this gown and Dr. Reynolds will be right in to see you,” the nurse said after checking his blood pressure and body temperature, making a note of his fever in the chart she carried in with her. She handed him a blue and white paper gown and left the room.

Once they were alone, Tom sat beside him and felt his forehead, coated by a light sheen of sweat. Chris closed his eyes at the touch, not having realized how much he needed it.

“Chris, I need to know all your symptoms before I speak with your doctor.”

Blinking slowly, Chris lifted his arms and Tom pulled his shirt over his head. “Dizziness, nausea, fatigue. Anxiety? Maybe. It’s hard to tell. I’m itchy a lot.” They both glanced down at his bare chest.

“And when did these start?” Tom asked, helping Chris remove his jeans one leg at a time, taking extra care with his injured knee.

Clad in only his boxer briefs, Chris knew where Tom was going with these questions. He slipped into the paper gown, open in the back, and took a deep breath. “With my new pain medication.”

Tom’s mouth set in a hard line, but the doctor knocked at that moment and entered the room.

“Chris!” he said, stepping forward to shake his hand. After a small hesitancy, Dr. Reynolds extended his hand to Tom, who shook it quietly. “I heard you took a spill. Tell me what happened.”

He did, cringing internally at the memory, remembering the hit of adrenaline that spurred his fear, the sound his skin made slipping on the tiles, the beat of the water that lulled him even further down that dark rabbit hole. The pain. Even now his tail bone still throbbed with every heartbeat. Voice soft, he listed the various symptoms he’d been feeling.

Dr. Reynolds nodded seriously and made a note in his chart.

“Sounds a lot like severe side effects, doctor,” Tom said softly, chiming in for the first time. “Maybe even an allergic reaction.”

“Well, that has yet to be determined,” the doctor said, adjusting the glasses on his face. He studied Tom close. “Might I ask who you are…in relation to Chris?”

“A friend. I’ve read his medical chart and it seems like an allergy of sorts. He needs to have it removed from the list of possible medicines to be given to him in the future.”

Dr. Reynolds blinked and stared off to the side in that way people did when trying to collect their thoughts. “Mr. Hemsworth has taken pain medication in the past. He is a professional athlete, after all, used to many kinds of aches and pains.”

“Yes, but not this particular brand of medicine nor this heavy a dose. It’s my understanding that no one ever even called Mr. Hemsworth following his appointment with you to check how he was reacting to the new medication. A standard procedure, if I recall correctly. Such a lapse in protocol could be labeled as negligence. Or even malpractice.”

The doctor blanched.

Keeping a straight face, Chris shifted his eyes to Tom, realizing he’d never shared with him the fact that no one had called to follow up on how he was adjusting to the new pain pills, nor had he even considered that they were the reason for his sudden decline in health. Tom was taking a chance that no one had, defending him on half-known truths and guess work. Or maybe he was so confident in the common ineptitude of the health care system that he knew there was no possibility of someone having called him, otherwise Chris would have had help with his problem long ago.

“Was Mr. Hemsworth’s pain considerable enough to increase the dosage by a _small_ amount? Yes,” Tom continued, voice clipped. “But this kind of reaction is extreme. He has vertigo and nausea and rashes and fatigue. He is suffering. All because someone couldn’t take the time to explain the risks or that by controlling the dosage of something more common, such as acetaminophen or ibuprofen or even aspirin, the results would have been just as effective without these side effects hindering his already difficult path to a full recovery. It is of the utmost importance that a patient’s mental and emotional health be stable and monitored, lest whatever advancement he makes in his recovery be lost. Just because a person’s career of choice—in this case professional athleticism—calls for frequent ‘aches and pains’, has nothing to do with the possibility of allergic reactions; reactions, I might add, that his primary physician should track.”

Pulse beating rapidly, Chris could only stare at Tom, at the angry bent shadow of his dark blonde brow, the delicate flare of nostrils. Never had someone spoken so ardently on his behalf. It made Chris feel _seen_ in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time.

The sudden longing for Tom was like an ache in his bones.

The doctor cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses again. “No one here wants to restrict Mr. Hemsworth’s recovery. Listen, I’ll make a note of his reactions and mark this drug as an allergen. We’ll switch him back to a standardized pain medication. Ibuprofen, perhaps, as it also works to lower inflammation. The dose will have to be strictly followed and taken with food or a glass of milk to line the stomach. Ibuprofen in an empty stomach can cause bleeding and give you ulcers, as well as increase the risk of kidney damage if taken too often and at too high a dose,” he said to Chris.

Dr. Reynolds stood, gesturing to the examination table. “Please lie here and I’ll check your knee. The MRI table will be ready once we’re done.”

Tom stood to the side once Chris was situated on the table. Chris never lost track of him, his senses attuned to Tom’s presence, his breathing, the way to best read his body. Chris knew Tom was upset, standing with arms crossed, his blue eyes watching every move the doctor made. He never could have imagined Tom speaking so pointedly and with such disapproval. He was disappointed in the doctor, and frankly, so was Chris. It was almost a worse emotion than the pain and frustration of his injury.

The doctor took his knee in hand and Chris tensed, staring resolutely at the ceiling, already disliking the feel of his skin, the temperature and texture of it. Tom came to stand by the table, resting his own hand on his shoulder, easing him in this small way.

The doctor’s eyes shifted up at them once and then returned his focus to his leg.

“You still have ongoing swelling, but nowhere near what I thought it would be,” Dr. Reynolds said, echoing Tom’s earlier prognosis. He felt along the crook of his knee, testing the strength of the ligaments there. “No pulled muscles, but soreness will linger a few days. All feels very good. But the MRI will confirm this. Most likely, it will give us great news.”

After asking if he had any more questions, the doctor excused himself to check the status of the MRI order. Feeling helpless on his back, Chris propped himself up on his elbows as soon as the door closed, fighting a fresh wave of vertigo. He looked up at Tom.

“I’m sorry,” Tom said, shaking his head. “I had no intention of lecturing the man, but it was about time someone voiced concern over your recovery, or lack of it.” He touched Chris’s hair softly, brushing back strands from his forehead. “Doing only the most perfunctory checkup and sending you on your way with little to no explanation…” He shook his head again.

“Come here,” Chris whispered.

Tom leaned down and took his face, bringing their lips together briefly. There was a knock on the door and they sprang apart. Dr. Reynolds poked his head in.

“We’re ready for your new images.”

A wheelchair was provided and Chris sank into it gratefully.

Now, lying on the MRI table, knowing Tom waited just outside the door, Chris relaxed, letting his head loll, rock music pouring into his ears from the headset the technician gave him before leaving the room. His leg was strapped tight, knee propped up at a small angle for maximum image results.

Meant to appear as stars, small twinkling lights were fixed into the blue ceiling above him. He blinked up at them, not even bothering to count how many there were, although he imagined some other time he might have tried.

The MRI machine hummed to life and he was moving suddenly, pulled into that cocoon of cold metal and sharp noises, finally closing his eyes.

**

“It’s over, Chris. Wake up now. You did great.”

Chris opened his eyes. The music was off and the stars were above him again. He was out of the machine, leg free of its restraints, and Tom was leaning over him, smiling.

But then Tom frowned, cradling his face. “Oh, darling, it’s alright. Don’t cry. I know you’re not feeling well.”

Chris blinked and warmth slid down his temples and into his hair. So he was crying. And before he could check his feelings, a mounting emotion swept through his chest, blinding him with fresh tears. It was pure fear, raw hatred, mixing vilely to create a bitter distress in his heart. Something must have triggered this in his sleep, a dream he couldn’t remember. He was so much better at concealing the inner workings of his mind, his self-doubt, that he shook his head, confused.

Using the pads of his thumbs, Tom wiped the tears away, caressing over Chris’s hair. “It’s alright, darling. I’m going to get you out of here.”

Tom bent as if to embrace him, wrapping his arms around his back to help him sit up. Chris clung to him with a small groan, feeling the world tip a full circle. But once sitting, he held tight to Tom’s waist and pressed his face to his belly, his silent tears hot against the cotton shirt.

Tom stroked his hair and held his head against him. “I know, my darling. I know.”

“I’m sorry,” Chris breathed, voice muffled, swallowing past his broken sobs. He pulled back slightly and dried the rest of his tears with the brittle gown he wore, anxious to be rid of them. “I’m sorry.”

“You have no reason to be,” Tom whispered, thumb tracing over the still moist tracks on Chris’s cheeks. He smiled and Chris felt his heart contract painfully, so lovely.

Back in the evaluation room, Tom helped him dress. Dr. Reynolds assured him he would contact Chris in a few days with the results of the MRI.

The drive back home was quiet. Tom’s hand was tucked against his hip again, and Chris gripped it tightly as trees and buildings and other cars blurred past his window.

“I’m not weak,” he whispered faintly, closing his eyes, another tear falling free.

“I know you’re not,” Tom replied and Chris rolled his head to face him, not having meant to be heard. Tom glanced at him, shrugging. “You are the farthest thing from it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you reading my story Stray Not From Me, please bear with me. I needed to take a short break from it, but I will get the new chapter out to you as soon as I can. Thanks for your patience! <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely duskyhuedladysatan <3 (omg my Dusky, it's been 7 weeks!)

The downstairs bedroom was fully furnished, but Chris felt distinctly out of place there. The lighting was wrong, he was facing the opposite direction, it didn’t have its own bathroom.

_Give it a rest, Christopher_ , he chided himself, lying back on the hard pillows.

Tom was upstairs collecting clothes and toiletries for him to bring back to this temporary room. While Tom was at work and Judy out of the house, Chris would need to be able to reach for things without walking too far. Going upstairs was out of the question.

Chris was overcome with a feeling of immense gratitude, something quite alien to him. Without Tom, he would still be lying in that shower, waiting for Thursday, for Judy to find him naked and near death.

She would have been hysterical, no doubt calling the police instead of his doctor, news of his embarrassing episode lighting the press with juicy headlines, all false.

What a nightmare.

The doctor ordered that he start using his leg brace again, a giant metal contraption that itched like hell and made his leg ache only an hour after putting it on. “I know it’s uncomfortable, Chris, but it will prevent you from following the instinct to bend your leg so suddenly and causing further damage. At least until we know what the MRI results are.”

The brace had been stashed away in that very room, actually, and Tom helped put it on, buckling and securing the straps, testing its tightness.

“Move your foot around as much as you can. I don’t want you getting a blood clot.” He frowned and touched the brace thoughtfully. “But if one does form, it will be below the line of surgery. Look for bright red splotches of color on your skin. Swelling. Numbness. I’ll be checking your leg too. It’s just a precautionary measure.”

Just before Tom headed upstairs, he’d made Chris some chicken broth with toasted bread. The smell of it made Chris’s stomach growl and they both looked down at it. Tom laughed, his tongue peeking out, and Chris blushed, accepting the food.

“Thank you,” he whispered, taking his first sip of soup, feeling the warmth settle in his stomach like a soothing balm.

Tom sat at the edge of the bed. “You say that like you’re not used to thanking people.”

“I don’t like saying it to people who don’t deserve it.” He shrugged.

Tom smiled and looked down. “Will you be okay while I’m at work tomorrow?”

Chris stilled. He’d forgotten Tom had an actual job and an actual life and couldn’t be his all day every day. He swallowed the last bit of the soup and wiped his mouth with a napkin “Sure. Judy will be by tomorrow. It’s Thursday.”

Tom nodded and glanced around the room, his eyes catching on the light spilling in through the thin curtains. “Do you need anything else…before I go?”

Looking up, Chris licked his lips and fought for something to say to get Tom to stay.

But there was nothing that wouldn’t make him sound needier than he’d been all day. “No…” he said. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Tom said, standing and removing the charger he’d stored in his back pocket. “Forgot this,” he said, bending and plugging it into the outlet just behind the bedside table. “Took it from your room. For your phone. In case the battery drains.”

Chris eyed the curve of his ass and the long line of his legs, finally turning away quickly just as Tom straightened.

“I take it we’ll continue your sessions at home?”

“Yes, definitely.”

Tom smiled. “Good. I’ll arrange my schedule so you are my last appointment, so I can stop by here on my way home.”

Before he left, Chris reached for his hand, their fingers twining. Tom bent and kissed his mouth, lingering there before trailing his lips over his cheek and to his ear.

“Can I come check on you…during the weekends?”

His whisper tickled Chris’s skin, and he swallowed hard, allowing the chill that followed to roll over his skin.

“Yes.”

Giving him another peck on the lips, Tom left with a wide smile.

Chris tried not to think about the great emptiness that resonated hollowly throughout the house once the front door closed behind the man he was beginning to feel lost without.

**

It started slowly, this timid and cautious relationship. Tom would arrive at his house every day at three in the afternoon, something that Chris looked forward to even more than Judy’s visits on Thursdays, even though he still went soft with sincere affection for his housekeeper.

The results of his most recent MRI were great. The repaired ligament remained intact, even if swelling had increased by a small percentage.

“A normal reaction, no need to worry,” Tom had said, hovering with Chris over his laptop. Tom flipped from one black and white image to another, of which Chris could make very little sense, but that Tom immediately began studying, humming with interest.

Judy and Tom finally met each other after the second week of this arrangement. Opening the door to Tom’s lovely face, Chris couldn’t blame her for fawning over him, offering him whatever she had made for lunch that day, or tea and dessert, or anything else they had in the house, peppering him with questions about his job and his family. Tom would respond graciously and politely as always, never failing to accept Judy’s invitation to stay for dinner on Thursdays. He even went so far as to join her in the kitchen, where they swapped cooking secrets and recipes that had her looking up at him like some kind of deity.

Chris watched this all with a bemused smile from his spot at the kitchen table, leg elevated on a chair, blushing faintly when Tom would look over at him and wink.

Making sure to shower by noon, Chris liked to have a full meal by the time Tom knocked, or as he’d made a habit of, simply walked in through the front door, his grin a greeting for which Chris found himself counting the hours.

He was walking a little more each day, limping around his house, stopping occasionally at the bottom of the staircase, looking up with longing. It was strange sleeping in the guest bedroom. It wasn’t exactly unbearable, but he missed the familiarity of his own space, his own things. It was like living in a hotel room. And he got enough of that during the regular season when the team traveled out of state. A new room every other night, a bunch of smelly guys occupying an entire floor. It was never quiet enough, never dark enough.

Tom had him lying on his back for most of their sessions, the practically brand new mattress of the guest room reminiscent of the worktable Chris was accustomed to lying on at the clinic. Or other times they would meet in the home gym, the spongy floor mat just the right amount of firmness beneath him.

Tom would guide Chris through the various leg exercises and stretches, encouraging him every day to go a bit farther. Sometimes Chris would stand for his exercises, but his balance was still off, and when he felt himself tipping forward or back, Tom was immediately there, strong hands on his ribs, steadying him. From within his bag of supplies, Tom would bring out lotion for the massage that he always ended their sessions with, Chris an exhausted pile of sore limbs.

Afterward, Tom would wash his hands in the bathroom down the hall and return to him, cool fingers brushing back his sweaty hair, smiling lips kissing his temple, whispering, “You did so well, Chris. So well. I’m proud of you.”

Chris loved it when Tom touched him like that, completely unrelated to his therapy, but because Tom seemed so eager to share affection with him; carding his fingers through Chris’s hair, tracing along his jaw, cupping his neck. Chris loved to close his eyes at such contact, let his breathing settle down, Tom’s lips on his forehead all he could ever need to center himself.

Studying himself in the mirror after his shower every day before bed, Chris could see the significant difference in his appearance. His skin was getting its color back, the bruises were fading from beneath his eyes, and his sleeping pattern was returning to normal.

His appetite returned with a vengeance and Chris was eating every chance he could. This provided him the energy to work out when alone in the house, bench pressing and lifting free weights, doing sit ups with his braced leg stretched out before him.

It gave him focus. It gave him drive. And he was feeling upbeat for the first time in months.

One evening after his therapy session, Chris showered while Tom and Judy fixed dinner. After dressing and combing his hair, he padded down the hall and heard their quiet whispers in the kitchen.

“He’s been doing so well lately,” Judy was saying. “I worry about him on the days I’m not here. If he’s eating, if he’s sleeping.”

“That makes two of us,” Tom replied, laughing quietly. “But he really is an extraordinary person. I don’t think he sees it, though. There is such a wealth of kindness in him, of affection that surprises him sometimes. But I see it. And it’s really, well, quite beautiful.”

Chris cleared his throat and stepped into the kitchen. Judy and Tom looked up like children caught with their hands in the cookie jar, Tom a gorgeous shade of red.

But Chris just smiled and leaned over the stove. “Dinner almost ready?” He squeezed Tom’s hand and winked. Tom’s face broke open in relief and they all sat down to eat.

After Judy left, Chris took the last peach from a basket on the table and went outside to the veranda. The sun was setting, casting a heated glow over the backyard and Judy’s garden, bursting with a myriad of colorful flowers and full-leafed plants.

Tom found him sitting on one of the cushioned chairs, halfway done with the peach.

“You move so quietly,” he said, taking the seat next to him.

“Surprising,” Chris said, tapping the hard plastic of his leg brace. He let his wrist dangle over the armrest, the peach clasped loosely in his fingers.

Tom reached over and plucked the fruit from his hand and took a bite, juice spilling down his chin. He wiped at it and continued eating, eyes on the far off sunset.

Chris stared, watching that pink tongue lick at the excess drops spilling over the fuzzy skin of the peach, the white teeth, the closed lips, and he suddenly couldn’t stand it, Tom sitting so far from him.

Before he could take another bite, Chris grabbed his wrist and Tom looked at him, eyes wide.

A tense moment passed and then Tom was on his feet and straddling him in the next second, crashing their mouths together in a hurry, the peach lost somewhere in the process. His lips were sticky and sweet from the peach juice, and Chris moaned at the taste of him, his hands running over his back and along his thighs, grabbing his ass and pulling him closer.

Tom gasped and gripped his hair, pulling Chris’s face toward his neck, Chris planting quick, moist kisses on his skin. He bit lightly and Tom moaned, his hips swiveling forward, heated even through the layer of the shirt Chris wore.

Tom took his face and kissed him again, slow and soft, a tiny whimper in the back of his throat.

They pulled back and Chris looked up at him, into Tom’s blue eyes, strangely aflame in the evening light, flicking back and forth between his own, searching.

“Do you have anything?” Tom asked, thumbs grazing Chris’s cheekbones.

“Upstairs. Bottom drawer by the bed.”

They kissed again and then Tom was gone, disappearing into the dark house.

Chris sat, hands trembling, the fading light of day enough to show the bulge in his shorts, his erection nearly painful in its urgency. He could still taste Tom’s mouth and he licked his lips, wishing he could chase after him and take him on his own bed.

The door opened and he sat up, afraid Tom had changed his mind, that he was leaving, that Chris wasn’t good enough. But then Tom dropped to his knees in front of him and began pulling down his gym shorts.

“You’re clean?”

Chris nodded, unable to speak. He was clean. Part of a mandatory testing in January, he’d been checked and his tests returned negative. He hadn’t slept with anyone since then and he desperately didn’t want to sleep with anyone else ever again. Not after this.

“Good,” Tom murmured, pulling out Chris’s hard cock and kissing the tip.

Chris jolted, hands gripping the armrests, praying the wood wouldn’t splinter. Tom took the head into his mouth and started sucking, letting his saliva gather to smooth over the burning skin. Chris quickly rid himself of his shirt as Tom wrapped a hand around the base of his cock and started moving up and down, his long thumb reaching to press along his sac.

Chris groaned, arching.

Tom’s eyes lit up with delight and he hummed, his tongue running along the heavy vein beneath his cock, slipping into the sensitive slit at the tip.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Chris gritted out and Tom’s free hand came up to grasp his, their fingers locking.

Moving lower, Tom relaxed his jaw and took him a bit deeper, Chris nudging the back of his throat, before pulling back, breathing heavily, moaning delicately. He repeated it, head bobbing, eyes up, and Chris felt a coiling start in his belly.

“Stop,” he gasped, fingers tightening around Tom’s. “I don’t want to come yet. Please.”

Tom released him with a wet pop and Chris reached for his neck, pulling him up for another kiss. Tom quickly unbuckled his own jeans, pushing them down his hips, boxers following.

Chris’s eyes widened, finally seeing Tom for the first time. Long legs with lean muscles, a soft coating of blond hairs, hips narrow and creamy. He was hard, his cock standing proudly, bobbing as Tom yanked off his shirt, stretching up, revealing a tight tummy and more wiry muscles in his abdomen and arms. He had a gathering of hair just between his pecs and a soft trail from navel down.

_Fucking beautiful_ , Chris thought, hands already reaching, wanting him closer.

Tom complied, folding himself on his lap again, straddling his hips. He took the condom packet and ripped it open with his teeth, the sight of which made Chris moan quietly. Rolling the condom over Chris’s length, Tom then took the bottle of lube he’d retrieved from upstairs and, after placing a soft kiss to its center, poured a generous amount on Chris’s palm, guiding his hand around his back.

Chris didn’t need any further encouragement. Taking Tom’s hip with one hand, Chris held him steady, smearing the lube over his ass, letting his fingers smooth it over his entrance, touching the small puckered opening, testing it.

Tom arched his back and Chris ran his nose along his chest hair before licking at a nipple.

“Yes…” Tom breathed and Chris felt his cock jump in response. “Yes, Chris…please.”

Pushing a finger in, Chris breached him, feeling Tom squirm and gasp in his arms. He was so tight.

“Oh, fuck,” Chris murmured, already imagining being buried deep in that sheath.

Wrapping an arm around his back, Chris held him immobile, stretching him, pushing in and out. By the time his third finger slipped in, Tom was writhing on him, arms held by Chris close to his sides.

“Please, I’m ready. I’m ready…” he moaned and Chris took his fingers out gently, hand reaching low between Tom’s legs to guide his cock to his entrance.

He lifted up, bracing his weight on his good leg, while Tom lowered himself slowly.

They both groaned as Chris pushed past the circle of muscle, his width stretching Tom nicely.

“Oh god, yes,” Tom breathed, mouth open, eyes rolling back.

Once Chris was fully seated, Tom’s heat was almost unbearable to him. He held still a moment, eyes shut tight, wondering if he was dreaming. He was shaking, holding Tom’s hips tightly, fingers digging into his skin, fighting the urge to slam up into him.

“Move. Move for me,” Chris gritted out. Tom’s cock lay heavily on Chris’s stomach, and as Tom started shifting his hips forward and back, it left a streak of sticky pre-come that had Chris nearly dizzy with pleasure.

“You’re trembling,” Tom murmured, long fingers slipping into his hair to scratch lightly at his scalp.

“Yes,” Chris said. “You make me nervous.” He caught his lip and bit gently.

Tom gasped, lashes fluttering. “No...don’t be.”

Chris grunted, adding his own strength to Tom’s movements. “I’m trying…not to,” Chris replied, groaning when Tom rotated his hips in a small circle.

“Trying not to…tremble? Be nervous?”

“You’re lucky I bloody like you, mate.”

Tom laughed, gripping his shoulders. “Why’s that?”

“Because I would have told you to stop talking a long time ago.”

Tom smiled, embarrassed. "I'm sorry," he murmured. He closed his mouth obediently, looking down sheepishly, and Chris got the distinct impression that perhaps Tom had been told this before, maybe by previous lovers, that maybe he talked too much, that maybe he needed to stay quiet. Chris slowed, realizing Tom had misunderstood him. It was because it _was_ Tom that he didn't mind the talking; it bubbled out of him naturally, his joy and childlike wonder. His voice was all Chris could think about sometimes when alone during his long days, that laugh that would curl into his thoughts, randomly and wonderfully, so that he found himself smiling, staring into space.

Lips shut tight, Tom kept his gaze down and Chris was suddenly frantic for eye contact. "Hey," he said softly, cupping Tom's cheek. "Tom, look at me. Please."

Blue eyes met his own, wide and...hesitant.

No.

"I didn't mean that. I'm sorry." He kissed him, lips trembling. "I'm sorry. But you have to understand. It's because it's you that I don't mind it. Am I short with other people? Yes. But it changes with you. It's my..." He sighed. "It's my stupid way of telling you that I really like you. And you confuse me. Because you broke all my rules with how I deal with people and I don't mind it." He smiled when Tom smiled. Caressing his hair, he whispered. "I don't mind it at all. Because it's you.” Quick kisses. “It's you."

Tom's smile was huge, all teeth and breathless laugh. "I really like you, too, Christopher."

Chris nearly sagged with relief, grabbing Tom's neck and pulling him down for a hard kiss. "Now let me hear you." Taking hold of his hips and planting his foot on the floor, he lifted up hard. He slammed Tom down and watched him cry out, his face lighting up with shock and pleasure.

“Oh!” Tom gasped, eyes shut tightly.

“I like hearing you,” Chris growled, taking his neck and making their eyes meet. “Don’t stop. Please.”

“Again,” Tom said, breathless. “Do it again.”

Chris slammed in once more, over and over, his leg muscles tight with the effort.

Tom was moving more frantically, his whines more desperate, his body shuddering with Chris’s thrusts.

From just the position Tom was in—legs bent practically to his chest, back arched, bouncing on him—Chris could tell he was very flexible. He tightened his hold on Tom's ass, unable to wait to see just how flexible he really was. Eventually. When Chris was better. For now, he was desperate to see him come apart.

Chris took Tom's cock in hand, still slick with lube, and began stroking it, smoothing the pad of his thumb over the weeping head.

Resting their cheeks together, Tom started mumbling, nails scratching at the meat of his lower back. “Fuck. Fuck, oh god. Christopher, please. Please…yes. Christopher…”

He kept Tom's hips moving, his other hand squeezing his cock, hard in his tight grip.

And then Tom was climaxing, long spurts of come bursting out, landing on his chest. Chris pushed him through it, squeezing his cock, wanting everything Tom could give.

“Come on. There you are. You’re fucking beautiful. Give it all to me.”

He pulsed around Chris’s cock, making him so tight, Chris stopped pumping and just stared at how Tom shuddered before him, clenched hard. Reminded of their unexpected orgasms in his room weeks before, Chris could see the similarities: the fluttering lashes, the flushed skin, the arched back, Tom’s voice gone.

He went completely silent during his orgasm, his entire body tight with release. It was only after a few moments that he went limp and collapsed over Chris, who held him close.

It didn’t take much for Chris to come after that. He thrust up into Tom a few more times and then stilled with a choked groan, his cock pulsing hard as he rocked in again, this great wave of ecstasy rolling over his body, lighting him from within. Tom murmured sweetly at his neck, kissing it softly, hand drifting over his chest, tickling the hairs there.

All was quiet, save for cicadas buzzing and crickets chirping their nightly noises, all sounding too far off and dim to be of any importance to them. There was a ringing in his ears and his skin buzzed wherever he and Tom touched, and still he clung to him.           The sun was gone. The backyard was shrouded in darkness and Tom was a bundle of warmth in his arms.

He tightened his hold on him, not wanting this to end.

But Tom shifted on him, probably uncomfortable with Chris still buried so deep.

"Hold still," Chris murmured, lifting him by his hips and sliding out. Tom whimpered quietly, but immediately snuggled back down onto Chris once he was free. Chris wrapped him close.

"Now you're the one shivering," he murmured, smoothing the hairs behind Tom's ear.

"It's getting cool out," came the whispered reply and Chris realized he was right. The back yard was dark, only the vague outline of the garden was visible.

"Then let's get inside."

Tom straightened, his knees pressed firmly at each of Chris's hips. "Oh. Yeah. Let me just change, and I'll help you to bed." Tom stood, a slight grimace on his face, leg muscles protesting.

Chris froze. "You're not...leaving?"

Tom eyed him, hands reaching for his jeans. "Well...I just thought..."

Shaking his head, Chris said, "I'm asking you to stay. Don't I always?"

Tom smiled at that, both remembering Chris's request for Tom to stay with him after his fall in the shower. "That was only one time."

"Well I was thinking it. Before. When you came to check on me after I almost overdosed on pain pills."

Tom's smile faded very slowly. "I was really worried about you."

"I know. I'm sorry."

They stared at each other.

Tom zipped his jeans up and looked down at him. He trailed a long finger down Chris’s face, his smile soft and private. "Fancy a bath?"


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I left a note about this on Stray Not, but I'm having surgery tomorrow on my right knee. I hope it all goes well! Send me all the good vibes, friends :) Thank you!
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely and freaking fantastic duskyhuedladysatan <3

Disposing of his used condom in the bin next to the veranda, Chris pulled his shorts back on and limped into the house, Tom's hand on his back. They locked the front and back doors and headed to the bathroom on the first floor.

"The one in my room is bigger," Chris said, eyeing the regular size tub. "It's a Jacuzzi."

"No matter," Tom said, bending low to open the taps, feeling the water's temperature with his fingers. He stoppered the drain so that the water could rise. "I...I like to touch," he said quietly over his shoulder. "I prefer to stay close to you...if that's okay." He looked up at Chris, who smiled slowly.

"Of course it's okay. I thought it was obvious...you're literally the only person whose touch I enjoy, that I welcome. I’m not sure if you could ever touch me enough."

Tom straightened and took his elbow softly. "Thank you," he whispered. After a slight hesitation, he said, "You really have a lovely smile, Chris. You don't smile often enough."

Chris looked down and rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. "Nah. I'm just sorry you have to look at my ugly mug all the time."

Tom frowned and stepped close. "Why do you do that? Put yourself down all the time?"

Chris avoided his eyes, shrugging. He really didn't know. It seemed almost expected, a pattern with a beginning he couldn’t recall. Staying hard with everyone else bred a distorted self-image. It wasn't something he liked to analyze.

Tom took his hands and leaned his flat belly against Chris. "You're the most attractive man I've seen in a really long time," Tom murmured, grazing his nose along Chris's jaw. "When I saw you, that first time at the clinic, sitting there so stiffly and in obvious pain, it took everything I had not to cuddle you to my chest that very moment. But," he said, lifting his eyes. "It wasn’t hard to see that you were used to keeping people at a distance, that you avoided touch or comfort. And I thought to myself that you must be wounded, so far deeper inside you than your physical injury. So I waited." He kissed the tip of Chris's nose. "Was it worth it?"

"Yes," Chris breathed, tightening their fingers. "You didn't give up on me." Tears threatened and he swallowed down the thick lump in his throat, breathing in shakily. "Thank you, Tom. I can't tell you—I mean, I can't explain how much that means to me."

"It's alright, darling. It's alright," Tom said, taking his head and kissing him quickly. Their lips felt so right together, Chris thought, hands slipping around Tom's waist, drawing him closer. Tom's lips were thinner than his, but soft and yielding. And those tiny moans. Fuck if they didn't make Chris dizzy with want.

Tom pulled back, pecking at his mouth one last time. "Let's get this brace off you and then into the tub. Yes?"

"Yes," Chris replied.

Tom helped him sit on the rim of the bathtub, holding his arms tight, and then began undoing the straps of his leg brace, pulling it off with a snap. Chris groaned quietly, flexing his leg, letting his muscles move for the first time in hours. Dark red indentations laced his skin from hip to ankle, but those would fade within the hour.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, just a bit stiff."

"Lift up," Tom whispered, tugging Chris's shorts off. Once he was bare, Tom bent and kissed the soft skin of stomach, his muscles jumping at the contact. Chris cupped the back of his head, fingers skimming over the short blond curls, and sighed.

Tom turned the water off and Chris pivoted on the rim of the tub, letting his legs sink into the warm water.

"Easy now," Tom murmured, hands hovering as Chris supported himself on either side of the tub, lowering himself slowly.

The water was hot enough that every muscle in his body tightened before they released, relaxing the tension stored deep in his bones. His fingers gripped the edge of the tub and he gritted his teeth. Fatigue swept through him as he rested his head back, the lights in the bathroom suddenly too bright. He closed his eyes.

He felt Tom’s hand on his forehead and turned into the touch.

“I want to sleep, but I don’t,” Chris heard himself murmuring. “I want to look at you but I want to hold you in the dark and hear your voice but I’m desperate for your heartbeat in my ear and your legs around me. Your hands. Your hands, Tom. Please,” he whispered. “Get in here with me.”

Chris opened his eyes and squinted up at Tom, who was gazing down at him, a blush on his face.

“Okay,” he whispered, unbuttoning his jeans and sliding them down and off. He climbed in, Chris’s eyes on the long line of his legs, the shadow between his thighs. Tom settled at the other end of the tub, legs bent up against his chest, Chris’s feet bracketing his hips.

“Closer,” Chris said softly, extending his hands, palms up.

The water sloshed a bit as Tom scooted closer, angling his body so that he lay over Chris, their chests flush, his arms circling behind his back, hugging him. Resting his head on Chris’s shoulder, Tom sighed calmly.

Chris could see the soft pink soles of Tom's feet peeking out of the water, and he slid his own feet to nudge Tom's calves, so warm.

"Are you comfortable?" Tom asked, his voice sounding thicker in the moist air.

"Yes, very," Chris said, running his hands down the lean plane of Tom's back, curving over his spine, and further down, cupping him where his backside poked out adorably from the surface of the water.

Chris's cock was flat against Tom's pelvis, and he felt it stirring in interest. Tom shifted closer, breath warm on his neck. His own fingers were exploring the small of Chris's back, his hands sliding around to smooth over his waist.

"I'm sorry," Chris whispered, when it was evident that his erection was there to stay.

Tom lifted his head, blue eyes flicking down to his lips. When he brought their mouths together, his body slid further up and Chris was surprised to feel Tom's erection rub against his own. Chris moaned into their kiss, wet hands coming to cradle Tom's head.

"You didn't bring more?" Chris asked, teeth skimming along Tom's jawline.

Tom shuddered. "More?" He looked a bit dazed.

"Condoms."

Tom's eyes opened. His face fell. "No...I’m sorry. But," he said, eyes rising, hope making them round and searching. "If you don't mind...I don't."

Chris's heart skipped a beat and he stared at Tom with newfound fascination. But Tom seemed to misinterpret the affection in Chris's eyes.

"I—I mean," he said quickly. "I don't usually let—I mean it's been so long for me too. And it's just that...well, I really want to...with you," he finished softly, face burning.

Chris smiled and hugged Tom to him, the other fitting snugly in his embrace. "I don't mind. I trust you. And you've seen my medical record, so..." Tom squeezed him once and then moved to straddle him.

"I'm just sorry that it's going to be like this for a while," he added and Tom frowned, confused. "With you on top." Chris looked down, suddenly ashamed.

Tom's face softened, his smile kind. "It's alright, darling." He kissed his forehead, nuzzling his temple. "I just love being close to you. But don't worry," he said, a wicked glint in his eye. "Don’t think I’ve forgotten your promise from a few weeks ago. I can't wait until you do all the work...fucking me hard...and fast."

Chris groaned and let Tom fist his hair, pulling his head back. His teeth scraped along Chris's throat and his hands tightened on Tom's thighs.

"Oh...god," he moaned, his skin erupting in chills.

"You like that?" Tom murmured, lips pressed to this neck. "I like that too. I want your marks on me. Don't be afraid."

Tom rose up and turned so that his back was to Chris, settling down on his lap again. Leaning back, he pressed their cheeks together and lifted his hips.

"Go on," he said, a bit breathlessly. Chris reached for his cock and pressed the head against Tom's entrance, still loose from their earlier lovemaking.

They both tensed as Tom slid down, his tiny noises and sharp breaths making Chris growl in desire. Tom arched and Chris hissed, feeling himself go deeper at that angle. The heat, the feel of Tom from the inside made his bones weak with hunger, with security, with possession. Tom felt just as much his as the day he’d first called Chris 'darling', or even before that; when Chris hadn’t realized Tom’s hands were his defining measure of healing. When he realized he couldn't think about Tom without feeling the undeniable need to smile.

Slowly, Tom moved his hips, sliding up and down on Chris, the water sloshing and spilling over the edge of the tub. Tom stopped, head already lifting to see the damage. But Chris gently took his jaw and held his head back, his long elegant neck arched beautifully.

"Leave it," he said, voice rough. "Don't stop. Don't you dare stop."

Tom nodded and continued moving on him, his cock so deep inside his heat, Chris could swear he felt his pulse. He let his hand drift down to Tom's chest, but Tom took hold of his wrist almost immediately and brought his hand back to his neck. Chris tightened his fingers and Tom whimpered with pleasure. His other arm wrapped around Tom's belly, anchoring him at the waist.

Trying to thrust up into Tom proved more difficult than he thought. His foot wouldn't hold on the porcelain, his right leg useless to him. So he let Tom writhe and bounce, whining when his prostate was brushed, turning his head to kiss Chris, facing away when he wanted Chris to suck on his neck.

Chris bit down at one point and Tom almost seized from the pleasure of it, a small cry caught in his throat.

"C- _Chris_ ," he breathed, his eyes rolling back. His cock jumped twice and he came, small spurts of semen floating and dissolving in the water. Chris held him down as he vibrated and twisted through his orgasm, before collapsing back against Chris, breathing heavy. Chris grunted as he lifted Tom's limp body a few inches higher. He planted his good leg under his buttocks and thrust hard up into him. He had to keep his pace slow or risk slipping, but it was enough, as the coil in his belly wound tighter and tighter, the blood rushing through his veins, his heart pounding.

"Yes, yes, yes, Christopher. Do it. Christopher, darling, please."

And it was that damn breathy voice of his, that way he exhaled his name, that finally tipped Chris over the edge. He came with a rush and a growl, hand tight around Tom's neck, the other gripping his sharp hipbones, holding him in place. He kept pulsing, filling him up, thrusting twice more, small jerks up, driving his semen further into Tom. His head felt inflated with air. His vision swam and all he knew was the man lying on him, clinging to him with every ounce of will.

He relaxed down with a soft sigh, Tom's body heavy and pliant on his own. He slipped out, kissing Tom's cheek sweetly when he winced. Tom turned on his chest, hugging him tight.

The quiet was thick and comforting, and had it not been for the light in the bathroom, Chris might have imagined that he and Tom were suspended in that silence, like a cocoon of warm steam and slippery skin, the soft drip of water over the edge of the tub all there was to delineate the passing of time.

Smoothing his thumb over Tom’s cheek, soft stubble poking his skin, Chris realized that he had fallen asleep. Curled up on his lap, the water lapping at his pale skin, Tom was like some sort of pearl-dotted mermaid.

His mermaid, Chris thought, stroking his elbow, hand cupping his neck. He squeezed him closer and Tom squirmed a bit, lips moving over his shoulder in silent words.

“Babe,” Chris whispered.

Tom mumbled something.

“Sleep with me,” Chris said softly. “Will you stay?”

He felt Tom’s lashes tickle his skin as he blinked and lifted his head, eyes wide and owlish, clearly wiped out. “Yes. I’m exhausted.”

Chris let his head fall back, laughter rolling out of him, rumbling low. “Two orgasms in an hour will do that to a man.”

Tom stared, a smile growing slowly on his face.

“What?” Chris asked.

“I’ve never heard you laugh before.”

Chris felt his face burn red. “Oh. Well.” He cleared his throat. “It’s nothing special.”

Tom shook his head and kissed his cheek gently. “It is to me.”

**

Climbing out of the tub proved to be one of the scarier moments in Chris’s life. But Tom was stronger than he looked.

After climbing out first and drying off, Tom mopped a towel around the floor where water had spilled so that Chris wouldn’t slip when he stepped out.

Chris watched from his seat in the emptied and slick tub. Tom had a towel wrapped around his waist, but it did nothing to deter Chris from remembering what he looked like naked.

“You’re staring,” Tom said, smiling at him from the foggy mirror.

“Sorry.” Chris ducked his head, laughing quietly.

“Up you get.” Tom approached the tub and held his hands out. Chris gripped them and took a deep breath.

“I won’t let you fall,” Tom whispered. “Put your good leg under you and I’ll pull. Just like before.”

“I’m heavy,” Chris argued, already imagining them tumbling to the floor, the pain lancing up his leg.

“Irrelevant,” Tom said, winking.

“Stubborn,” Chris muttered, but did what he was told. It reminded him so much of getting up after his fall in the upstairs shower that when Tom counted on three, Chris shut his eyes and gritted his teeth, pushing up blind, Tom pulling him the rest of the way.

He found himself standing firmly on his good leg, swaying with Tom’s arms wrapped tight around him.

“You’re alright. It’s okay,” Tom murmured as Chris hugged him, releasing his breath shakily. Relief flooded his system, and he couldn’t pinpoint why.

He dried off, tying a towel around his own waist. Tom flicked off the light in the bathroom and helped him down the hallway, their halting steps loud in the darkened house.

“Kinda spooky in here, huh?” Tom whispered, eyes on the hallway before them.

“I like the dark,” Chris said, turning into the bedroom. “Will you be afraid?”

Tom chuckled, helping Chris sit on the edge of the bed. “I do live by myself, Chris.”

"Yes, but new places can be scary sometimes.”

Tom touched his cheek. “I won’t be scared. I’ll just hide under you.”

Chris smiled. Tom closed the door and turned out the light. Walking to the bed, he pulled back the covers. Moonlight spilled in through the curtains, but Chris could only see Tom’s tall silhouette when he spoke.

“Towels?”

Chris shook his head. “No towels. Definitely not.”

He flung his own towel to the floor as Tom took his and folded it over the side chair. They crawled to the middle of the bed, drawing the blankets close over them. Tom curled himself around Chris, legs twining, arm over his back, fingers playing with the ends of his hair, slightly longer than he usually kept it.

“Good night, Chris,” he whispered, kissing the hollow of his throat.

Bringing Tom’s face up, Chris kissed his lips, opening his mouth to taste his tongue, warm and eager. He moaned and pulled back, rubbing their noses together. Tom laughed and hugged him, their chests flush and warm.

“Good night, Tom.”

Long after he felt Tom drift off, his body becoming heavier beside him, Chris lay awake, listening to his soft breathing, feeling his fingers twitch on his back. He touched Tom’s hair softly, the short curls bouncing back in place under his passing hand.

It had been so long since Chris literally slept in the same bed with someone else. He’d forgotten what it meant to share a space with another person, to feel their warmth, to wonder if they would regret seeing his face in the morning. More often, Chris would sneak out sometime in the early dawn, gathering clothes and keys and wallet and slipping out the front door. Why bother with possible rejection when it wasn’t really intimacy he was after? What did their opinion mean when he didn’t care?

But this was different.

It had always been different with Tom, who never gave him any reason to believe that Chris was less than what he considered himself to be. Which wasn’t much. It was about self-image, and Chris thought he’d given up on that long ago. Being with Tom, Chris was beginning to feel a buoyancy of spirit unlike anything he’d felt since his days in grade school. Tom made him feel worthy of happiness, of life, of love.

It wouldn’t happen overnight, this change he felt beginning to unspool in his ribcage. In fact, he knew his cemented attitude about mostly everything would fight him at every turn, try to convince him that nothing would ever change, that he was better off giving up, that he wasn’t worth it.

But he knew Tom would remind him otherwise. Maybe that was all it took. A gentle reminder and a loving hand.

Tom shifted in his sleep, murmuring softly. Chris tightened his arms around him and Tom quieted, sighing against his neck.

Chris closed his eyes, thinking that perhaps, he wouldn’t have nightmares that night. Maybe he wouldn’t dream at all. Maybe he would finally rest.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all of the kind messages I've received over the last few days. My knee surgery went well and I am home resting :) You are all so wonderful! <3
> 
> As always, beta'd by the lovely duskyhuedladysatan. I <3 YOU.

There was a sudden ringing and Chris startled awake. His face was pressed to Tom’s back, warm and smooth. Tom, lying face down, must have shifted during the night and Chris had simply rolled with him.

He sat up, squinting in the early morning light, trying to locate the origin of the sound.

"My phone,” Tom rasped, eyes still closed.

Chris rolled onto his back and grasped for the phone on the nightstand. It was an alarm. Finally finding the snooze button on the side, warm, drowsy silence settled over them again. He peeked at the window where the daylight was becoming brighter by the second.

Tom had to work that day. His heart fell. He’d completely forgotten that it was Friday. Suddenly anxious, Chris grabbed the bottle of lube by the phone and flipped back over, settling himself along Tom’s body, kissing him between his shoulder blades, nuzzling the back of his neck, hand roaming over his spine and lower.

“Mmm,” Tom groaned, his feet pressing down on the mattress, making his bum rise a little higher in the air, seeking Chris’s hand. “Christopher, I think you have half a mind to making me late.”

“I’d keep you here all day if I could,” Chris whispered against his shoulder. His finger pressed against Tom’s entrance, relishing in how Tom moaned and half turned, bleary eyes catching his.

“How much time do we have?” Chris asked, sinking his finger in to the second knuckle.

Tom’s mouth fell open in a quiet exhalation. “Like ten minutes.”

Without another word, Chris jumped up on his good knee and braced his injured leg at a half bent angle. He took Tom’s hips and yanked him up, setting him on all fours before him.

Tom looked back at him over his shoulder, eyes worried. “Chris—.”

“Hush now. It’s alright.” He poured lube over his palm and started massaging it into Tom, fingers searching.

“Your leg. I don’t want you to—.” He gasped again when Chris slid his cock between his cheeks, rubbing up and down a few times, thumb pressing it tight between Tom’s flesh. “ _Jesus_ ,” he breathed, and then focused. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

He moaned when Chris rolled his hips against him over and over, pantomiming thrusting, his cock hot and wet sliding over his entrance. “Oh, Chris…”

In response, Chris aligned his dick and started to push in, slowly. Tom’s words died on his tongue as he breathed out shakily, bracing himself on his palms.

“I’m going to go hard,” Chris murmured, running his hands over Tom’s hips and lower back, anchoring him steady.

“Yes, please,” Tom breathed, head hanging low, the small bumps of his spine visible in the early morning gloom.

Chris pulled out and sank in again, all very slowly, feeling Tom clench around his shaft, the drag and pull making him hold Tom tighter, closer. Pulling out once more, he took a deep breath and slammed in hard, groaning loudly. Tom’s broken gasp set Chris’s blood aflame. He pushed in again, marking a fast pace, the slap of their skin the only sound apart from Tom’s small cries and Chris’s grunts.

Chills swept over his body. As much as he enjoyed the two previous times he and Tom had had sex, fucking paradise in his opinion, the next ten minutes were going to be the best and most frustrating he’d spent since blowing out his knee. He always imagined having Tom beneath him would be the greatest rush, to feel those blunt nails scratching at his back, fucking him harder into the mattress. It was much sooner than he expected to be on top of Tom, but he would try it while he could.

“God… _yes_. Chris—fuck!” Tom whined, lifting his head, his short curls bouncing with the thrusts. His long arm extended backward, fingers touching Chris’s thigh, urging him for more. Reaching, Chris took his shoulders, finding that helped him balance easier on one knee.

“Goddamn,” he murmured, loving Tom’s breathy moans. He angled his thrusts a few degrees lower, trying to find that sweet spot inside. When Tom cried out, his back muscles contracting as he tipped forward, Chris knew he’d found it.

Planting one hand on Tom’s lower back, Chris held him face down, pounding into him as hard as his knee would allow.

“Stroke yourself,” he growled, wishing he could reach around and do it himself, but it would have displaced his weight by too much and he’d have fallen forward, crushing Tom. As it was, his good leg was shaking from the strain and their ten minutes was almost up.

Tom’s arm snaked under him, his triceps moving under pale skin as he started jerking himself off.     

“That’s it, babe,” Chris said, his voice low, eyes on Tom beneath him. “Touch yourself for me. There you are. You’re so fucking beautiful, Tom.”

He could see the blush spreading across Tom’s brow. He had one cheek pressed to the sheets, so Chris could only see half of his face, but it was a beautiful sight. Rosy pink skin, parted lips, whispering his name. And then his eyes shut tight and his teeth clenched, a choked groan trapped in his throat.

He shuddered violently as he came, contracting almost painfully around Chris, who had to slow his thrusts. Feeling the pulses, Chris let his eyes flutter closed as he tried to keep his orgasm at bay.

As soon as Tom loosened the slightest bit, Chris pulled out and stroked himself two, three, four times before he was coming with a shout, long strings of come bursting out and landing on Tom’s ass.

He moaned and ran the tip of his cock over the sticky mess, pushing into Tom’s hole again, pumping a few times, wringing out his climax.

Catching his breath, Chris rested with both hands on Tom’s hips, his legs buzzing. He felt himself starting to slump over, but his mind was still spinning and he couldn’t stop. Tom rose a bit sluggishly and turned to help ease him down to the bed. Chris’s left leg was numb and his skin felt tight over his muscles. But Tom was bending over him, those hands on his face, smoothing back his hair and Chris smiled, still a bit dazed. Once he’d settled him against the pillows, Tom reached for the towel Chris discarded on the floor the night before and wiped himself down. Returning to the bed, he stretched along Chris’s side, warm and pliant.

“Why did you pull out?” Tom whispered, his face unreadable. He bent his arm behind his head, looking up at him.

Chris blinked his eyes open, worried suddenly.

“Was it okay…that I came on you?” He tried sitting up, but Tom kept a firm hand on his chest.

“Yes. Yes, it was okay. In fact, I look forward to when you come on more of me. But I do prefer when you come inside.” He shrugged, smiling sheepishly. “I was just curious why you did it.”

Chris sighed, his hand curving over Tom’s thigh, caressing. “You have a full day of work ahead of you. I came in you last night. And again right now? I didn’t want you to be…uncomfortable today.” _With me leaking out of you_ , he thought to himself.

Tom nodded, a hint of a smile on his face. “That’s very considerate of you,” he said softly, tracing a finger around Chris’s nipple. “But that just makes me wish I had told you of the decision I made quite spontaneously in the middle of our rather…rigorous…exercise routine.”

“Oh?” Chris said. Mimicking Tom, he pillowed an arm behind his head, smiling at him.

“Mm, yes,” Tom said very seriously, brow furrowing adorably. “I decided that I think I’ll…call in today.”

Chris sat up, grinning. “Really?” The excitement in his voice sounded foreign to him. But he couldn’t help it. To spend the rest of the day with Tom and then the weekend right after? His heart leapt.

Tom laughed. “Yes, really!”

Chris grabbed him up in a fast hug, laying more of his weight on him. Tom’s laughter doubled as Chris buried his face in his neck, tickling him with his stubble. Tom squirmed and giggled sweetly. Turning, he caught Chris’s lips in a hard kiss, their mouths closed, chaste. It made Chris’s heart flutter.

“Mmm, you’re wonderful,” Chris whispered when they broke apart, Tom’s eyes sleepy still, loving.

Chris swallowed thickly.

“Let’s sleep some more,” Tom whispered, drawing the blanket up over their bodies. “And then I’ll make us breakfast and later we can go swimming and watch movies and eat lunch and sleep again and…and…” He trailed off as Chris started sucking on his neck. “Oh, yes. Chris…mark me.”

“You like that, huh?” Chris murmured. “What else do you like?”

Tom’s hands curved around his waist, trailing the line of his spine.

“Do you like to be spanked?”

Tom’s knees shot up, a reflex action, it seemed. He pressed his thighs to Chris’s hips, cradling him against his crotch. He turned his head away, eyes on something behind Chris. “Yes,” he said softly.

Chris frowned, unsure about Tom’s reaction. It was almost as if he were…ashamed. “Are you okay?”

Tom’s eyes snapped back to his. His smiled and cupped Chris’s cheek. “Yes, darling. I’m fine.”

Chris returned his smile. “Good.” He bent his head and started pecking along Tom’s collarbones.

“Christopher…there’s one condition to our fun-filled weekend.”

“Anything,” Chris whispered, taking Tom’s jaw and angling his head back, nipping at his throat.

Tom gulped, hissing when Chris used his teeth. “We have…we have to make time—for—for your therapy sessions.”

“No,” Chris said, shaking his head stubbornly, burrowing closer. “They hurt.”

“I know they do, darling, I know,” Tom said, wrapping his arms around him. “But you have to go through them to get better. Your leg needs to loosen. It’s too stiff, especially considering the amount of time that’s passed since your surgery. You don’t want it to remain like that permanently.”

Chris lifted his head, eyes narrowed worriedly. “No. I don’t want that.”

“Good. We’ll start again with a session this afternoon.” Tucking a strand of blond hair behind Chris’s ear, Tom smiled up at him. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Chris echoed. Snuggling close again, he let out a long sigh. “But sleep first.”

Tom laughed softly, caressing his face. “Yes. Sleep first. Rest, my darling.”

**

Chris found the texture of Tom’s skin fascinating, how smooth and tight it was. He trailed his fingers over the curve of his hip and across the length of his spine, absorbed in how chills erupted over his strong, lean limbs. Tom had the tiniest gathering of freckles on his upper back, and had it not been for the fatigue clawing at his mind, Chris would have spent the morning counting them, drawing curlicue designs with his finger, one freckle to the next.

After Tom called his work to let them know he wouldn’t be in, he and Chris fell asleep against each other. They woke up just after ten in the morning, the sunlight streaming in through the cracks in the curtains, warming their skin.

Kissing Chris’s shoulder, Tom slipped out of bed and into the hallway. Chris eyed him from where he lay, frowning when he noticed the slight limp in Tom’s gait.

Sitting up, Chris stretched, feeling the bones in his neck crack. Moving his foot around, he measured the level of pain that day and found it tolerable at only a dull throb.

When Tom walked back in, he was still naked as the day he was born, carrying the clothes they’d left crumpled on the bathroom floor. Chris let his eyes rove over his body, liking what he saw even more in the full light of day.       

Dropping the clothes on the bed, Tom clasped his hands before him, angling his arms to the side, gorgeous and shy. “You like to stare, don’t you?”

“At you, yes.”

Tom came round and sat beside him. He stroked Chris’s cheek softly, looking into his eyes. It was unnerving to Chris how comfortable Tom was with the intensity of his eye contact. Most people dropped their gaze almost immediately, but not Tom.

“How did you sleep?” Tom asked, reaching for their boxers. He pulled his on and handed Chris his own pair.

“Better than I have in weeks.”

“Good. I’m glad.” He laughed, almost to himself. “Me, too.”

“You’re limping,” Chris said suddenly, and Tom turned a delicate shade of pink.

He laughed quietly. “Yes, well. Three rounds of sex in less than twenty four hours is the most I’ve had in a very long time.”

“I don’t know how that can be,” Chris said softly, circling Tom’s wrist with his fingers.

Tom cast his eyes down and smiled. “It’s true.” He cleared his throat. “And anyway,” he said quickly, “you’re of a rather lovely size. So, I’m feeling it a bit.”

Now it was Chris’s turn to blush. “I’m sorry.”

Tom laughed, tossing his head back, tongue peeking between his straight teeth. Chris stared, following the long line of his throat.

“Darling, don’t apologize! I really, really enjoyed myself. I quite like walking with a limp if it means you helped me cause it,” he said, winking playfully.

“I like it when you call me that,” Chris said, leaning closer.

“What?” Tom asked softly, his eyes darting down to Chris’s mouth.

“’Darling’.”

“Darling,” Tom whispered again, eyes darting from Chris’s mouth to his eyes, breath hitching.

“I want you again,” Chris whispered.

“You have me,” Tom said, and then blushed red, whispering, “Oh,” before looking down quickly. Chris realized he meant something else and blushed with him.

“Thank you,” he whispered, lacing their fingers together, relief coursing through his veins.

**

They ate a late breakfast. Tom whipped up some pancakes, scrambled eggs, and fried bacon. Chris tried to help by serving the orange juice, but Tom shooed him to the table and told him to put his leg up.

They ate in silence, eyeing each other over their plates. Tom caught Chris’s left foot between his own and held him there. Chris, adoring the way Tom’s cheeks grew pink, smiled and took a quick drink of juice. Chris took his lower dose of pain medication once he was finished eating, hoping he reacted well to it.

They loaded the dishwasher and collapsed onto the sofa, flipping through channels, each vying for which show to watch. Stopping on one of the sportscasts, he froze when he saw a picture of his own face from a pre-season camp just to the side of the screen. In it, his eyes were squinted and sweat poured down his cheeks, his hair shorter than now, but still hanging past his ears. The announcer was commenting on Chris's injury from earlier in the year and what his prospects were for making a full recovery in time for training in October, opining that it would be best if his team started looking for replacements.

Chris’s mouth went dry, his hearing snuffed out in the loud buzzing that had started in his head. He had no idea what the commentator said after that, and he wasn’t really sure if anything else even mattered.

“Don’t think on it,” he heard whispered to him, and Chris blinked. “What that man said means nothing.”

He felt Tom's eyes on him and then Tom tucked a loose strand of hair behind Chris’s ear and took his hand, reaching for the remote control. He changed the channel quickly and left it on a documentary of the Louvre, his eyes lighting up with interest.

Chris was still a bit unnerved by what he'd just heard. Was his team considering dropping him from the roster? From the entire organization? Would he be traded? The thought made his blood run cold. Not only had he been with this team for nearly seven years, but a trade would mean another city. It would mean moving and being forced to meet new people and selling the house and letting Judy go.

It would mean leaving Tom behind.

He felt the blood drain from his head and he cleared his throat, rubbing his eyes. Tom was fixated on the screen and didn't appear ready to relinquish the remote control any time soon, so Chris put those thoughts out of his mind and tried smiling.

“Alright, alright. Let me get comfy first,” he said, pulling the lever that would recline the seat and prop his legs up. Tom immediately curled up next to him, tucking his long legs to the side. Chris put his arm around him and they fell quiet.

He paid little attention to the show, his heart pumping hard at the sheer normality of the situation, the kitchen clean after their shared meal, Tom relaxing with him, so normal and quiet. He hadn't done this with someone in many years, and even then he hadn’t felt this...safe...on those few occasions. This could be something permanent. _Tom_ could become permanent in his life. It made Chris’s chest tighten at how badly he wanted it to be so.

But it wouldn't happen if he had to move away because of his job, because he would be let go. All because he’d been injured.

_It wasn’t my fault_ , he thought, remembering the opposing player slamming into him, his own defender unable to keep up to protect his blindside.

After watching Tom out of the corner of his eye, wanting to memorize his facial reactions to things the narrator said, Chris eventually felt a wave of drowsiness wash over him, the pain killer finally taking effect with the aid of a full stomach, his leg blissfully without pain. He fell into a light doze, head against the back of the sofa.

He startled awake a while later, the volume of the television set low. Tom, tucked under his arm, rested his head on Chris's shoulder, his hand curled in his shirt. He was sleeping too.

"Tom," he whispered, touching the tip of his nose.

Tom shifted, burrowing closer.

"I want to swim. Let's swim."

"Mmm, good. Me too," Tom said quietly and Chris smiled.

He hadn't used his pool very often in the time he'd lived in that big house. Mainly during the season, when swimming laps and floating in the water helped relax his muscles.

"How do you feel about pizza?" he asked as Tom helped him stand. Tom flicked off the television.

"Now?"

"For after. I always want pizza after I swim. It could be a pool or the ocean or a lake, I want pizza. I don't know why." He shrugged. "But if you want something different, we can order that too."

Tom smiled. "Pizza is fine."

“Do you have any preferences?”

Tom cocked his head to the side, thinking. “I like nearly all of it.” He laughed. “We can do whichever meat or vegetable you want, except black olives, as long as we order Ricotta cheese with it.”

“I don’t like black olives either. What’s Ricotta cheese? Will I like it?”

Tom’s smile was pure delight. “We have to order it now! It’s the best thing to have top a pizza, Chris. I think you’ll love it.”

Chris shrugged. “Alright. I trust you.”

Tom’s face softened and Chris felt his heart clench. He was so lovely.

Chris placed the order in the kitchen, asking it to be delivered in a few hours.

"May I borrow some shorts?"

"No," Chris said, taking his hand and pulling him out into the veranda. "I swim naked. So will you."

Laughing, Tom followed, sliding shut the glass door. "The most terrible idea ever. Will we be able to control--?"

"Nope," Chris cut in and he laughed for the second time in what felt like forever.

Tom stared at him, eyes crinkling, and squeezed his hand.

Stripping was easy, as they wore only boxers and T-shirts. It was catching Tom once he was in the water that proved difficult for Chris.

He was a like goddamn fish—or mermaid, his memories insisted—cutting through the water and diving low, emerging with a splash and a wicked laugh halfway across the pool.

Chris, his leg stiff and fueling his growing frustration, could only watch with narrowed eyes as Tom swam close only to dart away, his curls dripping huge droplets of water, face shining with smiles and sunshine.

He was a huge flirt, sinking low in the water so that only the top of his head showed, swimming in zigzags toward Chris, like a shark. He would peak his eyes over the surface and wink, darting away when Chris tried snatching him close.

His limbs were graceful in the water, great circular movements that propelled him through the pool, floating on the surface, eyes closed and face angled to the sun.

"Come here," Chris called, sitting at the tile-decorated bench at one end, counting the seconds Tom remained underwater after inhaling deeply and sinking in completely. A dark shape loomed closer beneath the surface, shimmering and distorted, long arms cutting through the crystalline fluid. Chris held still, watching warily, ready to pounce.

As Tom erupted out of the water, Chris lunged and grabbed him around his torso before he managed to escape again.

“Got you!” he said, as Tom clamped onto his shoulders for balance.

Tom laughed and wiggled when Chris blew a loud raspberry against his belly. “You got me!” he said, breathless, his body sliding further down, wrapping his legs around Chris’s waist.

They fell back against the edge of the pool, sitting low on the bench. Tom finger-combed through Chris’s hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. Chris moaned quietly, his hands tightening on Tom's thighs. He lay his head on Tom’s chest, sighing. Here was peace, here was no judgment or worry.

Tom cradled his head close, resting his cheek on the crown of Chris’s hair, smoothing it down.

Chris took his wrist and kissed it softly. His gaze drifted to Tom's mouth and he frowned, noticing for the first time two faint scar lines, one above his lip and one below. Taking in the rest of his face, he saw another small indentation on his forehead.

"How did you get these?" he asked, tracing each one in turn with his finger.

Tom cast his eyes down and Chris couldn't tell if he was blushing or if the sun had already laid a burning claim to the sharp angle of his cheekbones.

"Oh, um. It was from an accident. A few years back."

"Like a car accident?" Chris pulled him closer, trying to meet his eyes.

Tom swallowed. "Not exactly."

"And this?" he said, turning Tom's wrist and brushing his thumb over the sickle-shaped mark on the back of his hand.

Tom looked down at their joined hands. "Another time. Another accident." And then he laughed, shaking his head. "I hadn't known you were studying me this closely."

"I feel as if I haven't looked at someone so clearly in years."

Tom's gaze softened. He kissed Chris slowly, rolling his hips forward, showing him the depth of his desire. Their lips crashed together, Tom wrapping himself closer. The warmth of his body in that cool water shocked Chris, who couldn't get enough of Tom at once. His hands roamed over his back, curling over his shoulders to drag him down for more kisses. The sun beat on their heads, dizzying Chris and his mad need for more of Tom.

"You wanted me to mark you?" he said against Tom's throat, his hand sliding up the back of his neck. Tom nodded quickly, rolling his hips down as Chris anchored him closer.

"Where?" He let his breath ghost over the moist skin of Tom's neck, relishing in how Tom arched forward for more.

"Anywhere," he breathed, his hand cupping the back of Chris's head.

Chris left butterfly kisses along the thick artery running the length of that gorgeous neck, letting his hot tongue trail up to Tom's ear, where he bit his earlobe lightly.

Tom moaned, his fingers tightening.

Gripping his hair, Chris angled Tom's head back, exposing his pale throat. Tom whimpered, balancing himself with an arm around Chris's shoulders.

Biting down hard, Chris was ready for when Tom jumped in his lap, wrapping his arms around his back, immobilizing him against his chest. He let his teeth sink in far enough to leave a lasting mark, wanting everyone who saw Tom in the next few days to wonder who it was that had bitten him to claim.

"Yes, yes, yes," Tom was murmuring, eyes shut, gasping quietly.

Removing his teeth, Chris started sucking at the center of the bite, working to draw a bruise to the surface. In all honesty, he hadn't cared enough to take the time with other lovers to give hickeys. Physical contact with another person was trying enough as it was. He never wanted to spend more time than was necessary to get his relief and leave. A few cuddles and small kisses were fine, but more than that signified a deeper bonding than Chris was comfortable with, and it wasn't fair to his partner to feign affection.

As he had somehow always known, Tom was different. He wanted to learn everything that made Tom moan and writhe and shiver and beg; everything that made him flush with pleasure and want, reaching for Chris because each other was all they needed.

And he wanted to spend hours making him do just that.

Tom was breathing his name, his cock hard against Chris's belly, stiff beside Chris's own erection.

Pulling back, he admired his work, a dark red stain just beneath a three-freckle triangle on Tom's neck. He rubbed his thumb over it gently and caught Tom's eye, squinting.

"That'll be dark purple tomorrow," he said, smiling.

Tom's eyes were hooded, his pupils blown.

"I'm ready to go inside now," he said, smiling mischievously. He lifted himself off Chris and stood, his body gleaming with the rivulets of water pouring off him. Chris watched, hungry-eyed, and stood to follow.

Tom helped him limp up the pool stairs and across the tiled, flower-lined walk, Tom's lips at his neck, kissing teasingly up to his ear where he breathed softly.

Chris growled. "I am not opposed to taking you out here on the grass, Tom."

Tom's smile was wide, victorious. He kissed Chris’s neck. "I look forward to that. But I'm picturing that in some type of late evening light...don't you think?"

Chris shut the door behind them, both feeling the chill of the air conditioned air. Tom stepped closer to him.

"I think you're wonderful," Chris said, taking his hand and kissing his knuckles. Tom's blush was so lovely, Chris couldn't resist stroking his cheek to feel the heat that lay there. Kissing his fingers, Tom stepped away and walked down the hall, giving Chris a splendid view of the back of his body, toned shoulders, supple behind and long, lean legs.

Tom tossed him a wink as he disappeared into the hallway and Chris swallowed thickly, wanting desperately to chase after him.

Shuffling into the kitchen, Chris took out some bills from the glass jar in the top pantry to pay for the pizza. He kept extra money there in case Judy needed it for things around the house, but also for occasions such as these, when his wallet was too far away to bother walking to get it.

Tom returned after a few minutes carrying two pairs of cotton shorts in one hand and the bottle of lube in the other.

It was so easy, once that barrier of personal space was broken, to fall back into a rhythm where simple want meant to simply have, to possess. Chris remembered being forced to only watch Tom, moving about that small examination room at the clinic, to be limited to experiencing Tom’s touch without being able to touch him in return.

Chris never realized that in the drug-induced haze that followed his earlier appointments, he’d longed for Tom, reached for him in his sleep, his name on his tongue upon waking, only to forget it all, blame it on the delirium of his pain; fall right back into that familiar anger and dismissal of everything, allow the usual irritation to fuel his attitude, catching himself in wonder when Tom made him actually want to smile, to laugh with him, to stare and not hate him. Because Chris didn’t hate him. He felt he hated so many people and didn’t care enough for them to consider their feelings.

But Tom he didn’t hate. What he was starting to feel and know and accept and desire more of, was the complete opposite of it.

He saw it all so clearly now, as Tom wrapped himself close, their lips meeting in a heated kiss, as if no interruption had occurred. He saw how much he was missing while mired in the residual rage from his injury and failed recovery. His restraint from contact from mostly everyone seemed inherent to his nature, but Tom bypassed all such feelings of constraint or repulsion.

Chris was, quite frankly, smitten.

Their kissing grew frantic, small moans and shared breath and tender bites. Tom liked to rise to his tiptoes when Chris did something he liked. He angled his hips against Chris, an offering, and drew Chris against him, bending as Tom bent, following when he never would have dared to before.

Taking hold of his hips, Chris lifted Tom to the countertop, Tom’s hands grabbing his shoulders for balance.

“Goodness!” Tom exclaimed, eyes wide and smiling. “I knew you were strong, but I didn’t know…you—you could…” He gulped as Chris mouthed at his neck, curving his hands over his backside. “…c-could lift me.”

Chris smirked. “I already told you. I’m going to fuck you against the wall as soon as I’m able. Standing or lifting you. I’m going to do it. And besides, you’re not that heavy.”

Tom laughed, hugging him. “I’m plenty heavy. You’re just being mod—.”

The doorbell rang. They both froze, like two children caught doing something they weren’t supposed to.

“Pizza,” Chris murmured, and they both fell into a loose hug, laughing quietly.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, friends! I know I have messages in my inbox, and I will get to those as soon as I can. I'm on this weird machine for my leg up to 8 hours a day and it's super hard to type things out on my back. Which is why the next chapter for Stray Not is taking so long. But I am working on it and it will be up soon. I promise.   
> Thanks again for all the well wishes! I'm healing, slowly but surely :) 
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely duskyhuedladysatan <3 I LUV YOU.

“I’ll get it,” Tom said, starting to slide down from the counter.

Chris held him tight by the waist. “No, don’t go. We’re not finished here,” he said against Tom’s neck, huffing.

“Oh, we’re going to continue this, Christopher,” Tom said, winking at him. He kissed him once, quickly, and then slid down and put on the cotton shorts. He took the bills Chris handed him and walked out of the kitchen.

Chris could hear him at the door, laughing and chatting with the delivery person.

He leaned against the counter as he put on the second pair of shorts, bending low to slide his bad leg through the material.

Straightening, he went to the refrigerator and took out two cans of soda and filled glasses with ice. He limped to the table just as Tom walked back in with a pizza box in hand.

“He gave us peppers and napkins.”

“For you, then. I don’t like spicy food.”

Tom stopped moving. “You don’t?”

He shrugged. “Never. I think it ruins the flavor of the food.” He grabbed one of the paper plates and took two slices, eyeing the clumps of Ricotta cheese with suspicion.

“Not me. It adds more to the meal, I think,” Tom said, tearing open a packet of hot peppers and dusting some over his first slice. “Try it!” he said with a laugh, pointing to the pizza.

The first bite was hesitant, but Chris found the taste of the Ricotta cheese to be immediately pleasurable, the soft cheese pluming over his tongue delicately. He groaned softly, eyes falling closed. Tom laughed, tongue peeking out.

“I told you!”

“What the hell is this?” Chris said in disbelief, taking another bite.

“Only the best thing ever. It’s what they put in crab puffs and stuffed pasta shells in Italian food.”

Chris mumbled and continued eating.

Tom bit into his slice, and moaned. He peeked under the table and saw that Chris had both feet on the floor. He angled his leg out and tapped his knee. “Lift it up here,” he said, indicating Chris’s leg.

“You sure?” Chris said, mouth full.

Tom smiled. “Yes.”

He bent and helped Chris lift, resting his calf on Tom’s thigh. He smoothed his hand over the swollen joint. “Better?”

Chris, internally relieved and happy to have Tom’s hands on him again, nodded. “Thanks.”

They finished their meal quietly, Tom’s face flushed and dotted with sweat from the spicy peppers. He took a long swig of soda.

“That was delicious. Thank you, Chris.”

Chris was leaning back, wondering what Tom’s skin felt like at that moment, the heat of it, the light sheen of perspiration. “You’re welcome,” he whispered.

Tom looked down self-consciously, running his fingers through his hair. He was blushing harder. “What is it?” he asked. “Am I covered in bits of food?”

Chris smiled. “No. I just like looking at you.”

“Well, I certainly like it when you do, too.” He placed Chris’s leg on the floor and then stood, gathering their disposable plates and tossing them in the trash. He tidied up the table, getting rid of used napkins and the empty pizza box. Chris stood and limped over to him.

Without a word, he spun Tom by the shoulders and kissed him, their tongues twining, pressing him up against the cool metal of the refrigerator door. He felt a sharp heat take hold of his tongue, and he realized that Tom’s mouth was still aflame with the spicy peppers from his pizza. He groaned and kissed him again, his tongue searching and tasting, letting that spiciness set his mouth to burn.

Licking his lips, sweat sprouting on his forehead, he took Tom by the neck and gently steered him to the counter, turning him around and bending him over it. Kissing him between his shoulder blades, still hot from the sun’s rays, Chris held Tom down with a wide palm on his spine, cupping his ass through his cotton shorts.

His hand stilled when he noticed the look of cold panic in Tom’s eyes. And then they closed and he visibly relaxed, letting out a quiet breath. Placing his weight on his tiptoes, Tom’s hips rose, seeking Chris’s hand.

“Please,” Tom whispered, cheek pressed to the cool granite countertop.

Chris gritted his teeth and brought his hand down.

Tom yelped when Chris smacked him hard, his palm lingering to soothe over the sharp sting.

“Yes!” he said a little louder, voice cracking. His long fingers gripped at the granite, twitching. Chris spanked him again, groaning at how Tom flinched away and then leaned toward him again, seeking.

“You like that?” he asked, breathless. His blood was pounding and he was getting harder by the second. He rubbed himself against Tom, letting him feel his cock through their shorts and Tom nodded eagerly. He whined low, eyes closing.

Chris let his hand come down on Tom’s ass again and again, switching sides, savoring every small jump and moan.

Finally, breathing hard, he peeled back Tom’s shorts, noting the pink hue to the tender skin, his long legs shaking.

“So gorgeous,” Chris whispered, gliding his hand over the smooth skin and then bringing it down hard.

Tom cried out, his face scrunching up, mouth open. He hit him twice more and then dragged his own shorts down, freeing his erection. Grabbing the lube Tom had left on the counter, he poured a stream over Tom’s backside, smoothing it over the inflamed skin. Pumping in two of his fingers, he gently stretched Tom again, gazing at him, at his hooded eyes, the curled fists, whispering _Chris, Chris, Chris._

Wetting the tip of his cock, Chris pushed in fast, sinking to the hilt. They both gasped, Chris settling his weight on Tom, holding himself there.

“Are you okay?” Chris asked, smoothing back Tom’s hair. Tom nodded, reaching his hand to take Chris’s, lacing their fingers together.

“Yes, darling. I’m perfect.”

“You have no…idea…,” Chris rasped, pulling back and slamming in again. “How perfect you are.” He pounded him hard, the heat from where he’d spanked Tom warming his pelvis. Taking hold of his waist, Chris snapped his hips in a furious beat, adoring the small cries Tom gave, the winces and gasps urging him on. “I promise to leave you alone after this,” Chris said, gasping, thinking of all the attention he’d lavished on Tom’s body without giving him a chance to recover. “But only for a little while.”

“Don’t!” Tom gasped as Chris rammed in. “Don’t leave me alone. Please.”

Chris slowed, beginning to get the impression that Tom meant something else entirely. He bent low, his chest flush to Tom’s back and kissed his ear tenderly. “I won’t, baby. I won’t. I’m going to be with you, okay? Will you be with me, Tom? Do you want to be with me?”

Tears sprang to Tom’s eyes and he lifted his head, trying to look Chris in his eyes. “Yes, Chris. Yes, I want to be with you.”

“Hey,” Chris said gently, pulling out and spinning Tom, who kept his eyes to the floor, a single tear escaping. Chris took his face. “Hey, what’s wrong? Don’t cry, love. Why are you crying?”

Chris’s heart flip flopped a frantic beat, wondering if he’d hurt Tom.

But Tom just shook his head and reached for him, hugging him tight. Chris returned the embrace, soothing his back. “Did I do something?”

“No!” Tom whispered, hands tightening on his back. “No, darling. You did nothing wrong. I’m just so happy.”

“I’m happy, too,” Chris said, pulling back and looking at Tom. His eyes were filled with tears, a few escaping and falling down his cheeks. Chris smoothed them away with his thumbs. “I’m happy too. You make me so happy. I forget so many things when I’m with you. My anger, my hurt, my pain. You have no idea how much better you make me. How much it feels like I was never hurt at all.” He shook his head. “Sorry. I don’t have words as you have words.”

And as Tom was opening his mouth to disagree, Chris kissed him, the moist tears smudging his own cheeks. They pulled back and stared, laughing quietly after a moment.

“Are you my boyfriend now?” Chris asked, smiling, something like an actual giggle threatening.

“Are you mine?” Tom said with a small laugh and Chris growled, nipping at his bottom lip.

“You know I am. I’m yours. I’m yours.”

Tom sighed his name, ghosting his lips over Chris’s. “I’m yours, too.”

He turned around and leaned over the counter again. Chris didn’t hesitate. He aligned himself and pushed back into the circle of muscle at Tom’s entrance and took him fast, taking up his earlier rhythm. Tom rocked beneath him, arms and chest flat on the counter. Reaching around him, Chris pulled Tom’s shorts down the rest of the way and fisted his cock.

“Oh—god,” Tom breathed, a small whine.

“I’ve got you, Tom. You’re mine.”

“Yes, yes. I’m yours.”

Pumping him with his lubricated hand, Chris wrapped his other arm under Tom’s chest, snaking his hand to hold his throat.

“More!” Tom gasped, eyes squeezed shut. “Harder, please harder.”

Chris threw his weight into his thrusts, Tom’s lean flesh bouncing under his onslaught.

“I’m—.”

“Come, Tom.”

“Chris, I’m—.”

“Yes, baby, please.”

Tom seized under him, back straightening. He rose and collapsed back against Chris’s chest, shaking and moaning his release. Chris flexed his hand around Tom’s throat, holding still with a grimace as Tom tightened.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he gritted out, looking down at where Tom pulsed around him. He cradled Tom to his chest, murmuring to him, but when Tom’s legs gave out, he caught him round the waist, easing him back down to the countertop. “Easy, love. Easy.”

Picking up the pace, Chris finished with a low growl, releasing deep inside Tom, who whimpered and wiggled his hips back. Chris gave him a light slap and he jumped, smiling.

“Eager, are we?”

“Mmm, for you, yes.”

Chris pulled out gently, watching as his seed spilled and trickled down the inside of Tom’s thigh.

He helped Tom straighten, pulling him in for a hug. They leaned against the counter and kissed, pulling away to stare. Tom’s eyes were still moist, and Chris cradled his head to kiss each eyelid.

“Boyfriend,” he said.

“Boyfriend,” Tom replied.

They laughed softly and hugged again, clasping each other close.

**

The water poured hot over their bodies. Chris helped Tom wash, rinsing him gently, licking at his neck, discovering spots where he was the most ticklish.

After drying and limping back down the hall, they went into the bedroom to lie down. The food, the sex, and the lingering drowsiness of the pain pill had Chris tottering on his feet. He collapsed back against the pillows in the unmade bed, Tom rolling in next to him.

They napped. Chris slept just as well as he had the night before, coming to find that he loved the feel of Tom in his arms. If they drifted apart in sleep, Chris took comfort in the fact that he could just reach his arm and Tom would be there, warm and his.

Tom woke him with kisses on his wrist.

“No,” Chris murmured, snuggling deeper into the pillow. He already knew what Tom was going to say.

Tom laughed. “Yes. We must. It’s time for your therapy.”

“No,” Chris said again, burying his face in the pillow, voice muffled. “It hurts.”

“It won’t for much longer.” Chris huffed and Tom slid closer. “How did I come to find you, my Australian, in this land of Yanks so far from both our homes?”

Chris chuckled. “Bloody hell if I know. But I’m so glad you did.” He sighed and flipped over, rubbing his eyes with one hand, holding Tom’s wrist with the other. “I probably wouldn’t be here anymore if you hadn’t.”

Tom touched his face. “Don’t say that.”

Chris met his eyes. “I recognize that you're a very optimistic person, Tom, but you have to know that not all of us come wired that way. And I was in bad shape when we met, babe. You can’t deny that.”

“But you were… _hurt_ ,” Tom said, brows drawn low, the depth of the word and what Tom meant by it clear enough to Chris.

“I still am. A bit.”

Tom kissed his palm. “I can help you.”

“You’ve already saved me, mate. I hope I can meet you halfway now. I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“Oh, my darling,” Tom said, touching his cheek softly. “You could never.”

The late afternoon sun seeped in through the blinds, mirroring their long glances, until with a heavy sigh, Chris allowed Tom to pull him to his feet.

**

An hour and a half later, Chris lay on the floor of his home gym, sweating and breathing hard. His leg was bent against his chest, Tom squatting over him, leaning on it, stretching it slowly.

“Almost,” he whispered, but Chris barely heard him. His head was pounding, the pain in his leg making fresh sweat sprout over his skin.

And then Tom eased up and stretched his leg out, letting it rest against the mat. Chris groaned as the burn in his muscles lessened.

Tom smoothed back Chris’s sweaty hair, smiling down at him. “You were brilliant, darling. Great job.”

Tom was sweating himself, more involved in Chris’s exercises than ever before. He helped with balancing his weight, and touched him more, harder. Chris assumed it was because the line of respectful professionalism that had hindered him in the past was erased between them. Tom, in the effort to encourage Chris to go farther for longer, invaded his space more, there to literally support Chris when his body gave out and he simply couldn’t continue under his own power.

Despite the pain and blinding fatigue, Chris felt optimistic. If they kept up this routine, he would be ready by October. More than ready.

Tom’s eyes lit up when Chris shared this with him.

“You’re exactly right, darling. That’s the spirit to keep up. I couldn’t agree more.” His smile, so infectious, made the corner of Chris’s lips tug upward.

In the shower again afterwards, Chris just stood under the spray of water, eyes drooping, Tom soaping him slowly. He bent Chris’s head to massage shampoo into his hair, kissing his cheeks softly, rubbing his nose in the crook of his neck. When Chris started to sway, Tom’s arms wound around his waist and he pulled Chris to him, taking his weight.

Chris leaned on him, head tucked into Tom’s shoulder, legs shaking. They stood there for several long minutes, the water pounding a lazy beat on Chris’s back, lulling him.

He moaned quietly, half asleep, feeling as if he was about to fall off the edge of the world.

“You’re alright. I won’t let you fall.”

Chris kissed Tom’s shoulder and sighed.

His dreams were bad again. The endless hallway, swinging light bulbs, fingers tracing on his legs, curling around his ankles.

Shifting, he moaned, hands fisting in the sheets. He felt overheated, his mind thick with something he couldn’t identify.

“Darling.”

A hand on his face, feeling.

He turned to that voice, rolling onto his side, moaning with relief when cool air hit his sweaty back. The dark hallway in his mind vanished, but his eyes stayed closed, too heavy.

“You’re burning up. But I don’t think it’s a fever. You’re just hot. This damned heat.” The sheets were tugged away until Chris was completely uncovered. He felt the bed move and then the slow whirring of the overhead fan as the air ghosted over his skin. The window lock clicked and was pushed open, letting in a fresh breeze, before there was someone next to him again.

“Better, love?”

Chris hummed and nodded as he reached for Tom, throwing an arm over his waist.

“Thank you,” he whispered, listening to Tom’s heartbeat in the dark.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely and superb duskyhuedladysatan <3

The next morning found them tangled in the sheets, the sun’s bright rays pouring in through the open window.

“Fuck me, that’s bright,” Chris groaned, shutting his eyes and turning into his pillow.

Tom chuckled and rubbed his face. After a beat, he asked, “What do you dream about?”

Chris thought for a moment and then shrugged. “I’ll tell you if you tell me something.”

Tom turned to face him, head resting on his hand. “Okay,” he said, smiling a bit uncertainly.

“I dream about a hallway. And it looks dank and dark. The concrete walls are peeling and…like…moist. Every twenty feet or so, there’s a hanging light bulb. And it’s never bright enough for me to always be in the light. I’ll eventually have to step in total darkness to reach the next bulb, but I can always see it, just there, ahead. And as I’m walking, I can feel hands on me, fingers, grabbing at my ankles and wrists. But there’s never any strength in those touches. They just linger, trail along my skin. They creep me out, is all.”

Tom nodded thoughtfully. “Do you ever reach the end of the hallway?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes it’s the end of the underground tunnel in my stadium, leading out to the wide green of the field. But most of the time I wake just before that.”

They were quiet. Tom looked down, smoothing out a wrinkle on the sheet. “And…and your question?”

Chris took his hand, stilling it. “Your scars. How did you get them? And yesterday, when I bent you over the counter. Just before I started to…you know. You looked almost…scared. Or panicked even. Why? Did you think that I was going to...hurt you?”

Tom gave him a small smile. “Those are two things.”

“Are we limiting the number of questions?”

He blushed. “I guess not.” Sighing, he sat up and crossed his legs before Chris. “I didn’t mean to appear frightened. I…I told myself that we would stop. That we would stop if I needed to. That you would listen.” He took Chris’s hand, tracing the blue veins at his wrist. “But I didn’t need to stop. Not with you.”

Frowning, Chris sat up. “Babe…why would you think I wouldn’t listen to you?”

Swallowing, Tom shook his head, rubbing his face with his free hand. “I…I want—.”

They both turned when a chirping noise came from his phone on the bedside table, where it had rested, noiselessly, since he arrived the day before. Tom frowned and stretched across the bed to check. “Almost dead,” he murmured, but checked the message anyway. He paled, a hand rising to his throat.

“What is it?” Chris asked.

Tom said nothing for a long moment.

“Do you…um. Do you get the newspaper? Here?”

“Yeah. In the cubby just outside the gate, next to the mailbox. Tom, what’s wrong?”

Tom leaned in and kissed his lips, before scrambling off the bed. “I’ll be right back.” He grabbed his shorts and disappeared out the door. Chris sat on the bed, not quite sure what had just happened. Maybe someone he knew had died and he needed to check the obituaries?

Chris hobbled to his feet to pull on his shorts and visited the bathroom. When he walked into the kitchen a few minutes later, he found Tom there, the newspaper spread on the counter before him. He was staring at it, mouth slightly open.

“Win the lottery?” he asked, trying to gauge Tom’s mood.

When Tom made no answer, Chris went to stand beside him, looking over his shoulder at the article, eyes narrowing as he read.

Beneath the headline ‘ _Injured Falcons Offensive Receiver’s Scandalous New Love Interest? More on Pg. 7’_ , were two pictures of Tom and himself. The first one showed Chris and Tom by his car outside the sports clinic on the day that he got his second MRI. Chris had his hand on the back of Tom’s neck. They were talking to each other, mid-sentence. The second picture showed Tom at the front door of his house, taking the box of pizza from the delivery person. He was shirtless and wore only shorts, and he was smiling.

The second picture was snapped just yesterday.

“Jesus,” Chris whispered, a coil of anger starting to burn low in his belly. “That was fucking fast.” He was hesitant about revealing much of anything to people in general, much less his sexuality. But if people were starting to speculate, oh well. He would answer questions with as much information and enthusiasm as before, which wasn’t much at all. It was Tom he was worried about.

Tom still hadn’t said anything. He was gripping his phone in one hand and running the thumb of his other hand over the pictures slowly.

“I’m sorry,” Chris said.

Tom’s gaze snapped to his. “It’s not your fault,” he whispered. His eyes were wide. It reminded Chris of what he and Tom had been talking about just before his phone chirped. Panicked eyes.

“Is this…is this okay?” He rolled his eyes humorlessly and took Tom’s elbow. “I mean, I know it’s not okay, what they did. Taking our pictures and speculating. But if that’s what’s happening…is it okay that you’re being associated…with me?”

Tom dropped his phone on the counter and took Chris’s face between his hands. “Darling, yes! Yes, I don’t care if people find out about us. Oh, darling that’s not what had me worried.” He hugged Chris hard, kissing his neck softly. “I’m sorry if that’s how it came off. It was going to come out sooner or later. I don’t care.”

“I don’t care either.” Chris pulled back. “But I don’t want people bugging you about it.”

Tom turned a delicate shade of pink. “W-who do you think will bug me about it?” He turned and started gathering the paper, folding it into neat rectangles.

“You know. The press. Media reporters.”

“I highly doubt it, darling. The article said ‘mystery man’. They don’t know my name.”

“Yet,” Chris said quietly.

Tom looked down, picking at his cuticles. He stepped forward and hugged Chris, burying his face against his neck. “Let’s not let this ruin our weekend. Please, love.” He laid small kisses on Chris’s jaw. “Please. Please.”

Chris wrapped him close. “Okay. Okay, it won’t. I promise. Let’s just forget it for now. I’m sure it will just wash over with more important news. No one cares about me.”

Tom pulled back a bit. “There you go, insulting yourself. I care for you, Christopher. Deeply.”

Chris stared at him, the sharp blue eyes, soft lashes curling up. “I care for you, too.”

They embraced, the warm sunlight filtering in through the lace over the kitchen window dotting their skin.

“Let’s cook up some breakfast and then relax on the couch and sleep and do whatever you want,” Tom said, squeezing him tight. He pulled away and walked to the refrigerator, bringing out eggs and bacon and juice.

Tom’s phone beeped once on the counter and Chris eyed it, watched as the screen brightened before turning dark. It had finally died.

Tom was humming at the stove, divvying up the bacon slices, laying them on the frying pan. Chris watched his shaking hands for a minute and then limped to the kitchen table. He sat and put his leg up, wondering who had texted Tom to begin with.

**

“Yes, I understand that, Mike, but the guy had to have been in one of the fucking trees just outside my property.”

His agent, Michael Santiago, was trying to placate him about the recent photographs and accompanying story of him and Tom from that morning's newspaper.

While Tom cleaned up in the kitchen, Chris had taken the opportunity to call up his agent. Heading out to the garden, he held the phone tight to his ear, the warm mid-morning sun bearing down on the back of his neck.

“I mean, it can easily be rebuked, Chris,” his agent was saying. “It’s a simple matter of releasing a statement saying you’re not involved with this guy and that your main focus is your full recovery—.”

“I am involved with him.”

His agent paused, the space on the other end of the line sounding heavy and hollow.

“What?”

“I am involved with him.”

Mike cleared his throat, clearing struggling to wrap his mind around this new discovery about his client.

“Uh. Okay. Okay, sure, no problem. We’ll still release a statement that your personal life is exactly that. Personal. And that your main focus _is_ your full recovery and returning to playing condition by October. Something to remind the public that that is what they should be focused on too.”

“Fine,” Chris conceded, already dreading the sound bites and grimaces replayed over evening sports casts. He wasn’t the most comfortable in front of a microphone or camera, but to try to bury the very true rumors before they got out of hand or made things uncomfortable for Tom, he would do it.

“Listen, Chris. I know the last few months have been rough on you. Your rehabilitation has taken longer than some other players, but I understand where you’re coming from. And honestly, I’m happy to hear that you’re getting some much needed down time, especially with someone that you like. But be careful with this. We don’t know how the sporting community will react to your being…you know.”

Chris rolled his eyes, shifting his weight for a few seconds to his bad leg to give his left a break.

“Just be careful where you’re seen. At least for the time being—.”

“Both pictures are from when I was doing something low profile, Mike,” Chris said, stepping further into the garden. “The first was when I went in for an MRI. He helped me that day because I fell in the shower like a dumbass. The second was when I was _home_. You can’t be more careful than that.”

Mike sighed. “You’re right. Take it easy. I’m just giving advice. Friend to friend.”

_You’re not my friend,_ Chris thought, jaw clenching. _My paycheck is your friend._

He rubbed at his eyes, realizing that maybe that wasn’t fair of him to think of someone who had been closer to Chris than most over the years.

“I mean. No one seems to know the guy. So, perhaps we can keep it that way until you're ready for people to know, if you're ever ready for people to know. No potential harm done. Who is he, anyway?”

Chris let a beat pass before he sighed. “My physical therapist.”

There was a burst of static on the other end of the line as Mike let out a surprised guffaw. “Your physic—you mean the new one you just started with like a month ago?”

“Yeah,” Chris said, reverting to his favorite form of conversation, monosyllables.

Silence on the other end. “Chris. You know this might have negative consequences for him.”

“I fucking know that! Why the fuck do you think I’m calling you about this.”

“His work might have strict policies on patient/client relationships. There might have been something he signed that could mean termination of his employment. Or there could be something in the company's sexual harassment policy about things like this. I mean there are a variety of things that could—.”

“Alright, alright,” Chris said, rubbing his eyes, feeling the heavy weight of guilt settle like a stone in his stomach. “I’ll talk to him about it, okay? But I don’t want him bothered. I don’t want him affected by this at all. Understand?”

Mike was quiet for a moment. And then, “Jesus, I’ve—I’ve never heard you talk like this before, Chris. About someone else, I mean. He must be something special, huh?” he said, a smile in his voice.

Chris gritted his teeth. “Yeah. Something like that.” And then he hung up.

Squinting in the bright sunlight, his thoughts strayed to Tom’s reaction to their photographs in the paper. And why he seemed so scared about it. Would his job really be in jeopardy by being with Chris?

He frowned, wondering if he was even worth the risk.

About to head back into the house, Chris hesitated in the middle of the garden, where a small patch of loose, dark brown earth was curled softly away from a tiny sapling sprouting from the center of the deep groove.

He bent at the waist, examining it. He couldn’t tell what kind of plant or tree it was. But it was a fairly new addition. He’d have to remember to ask Judy about it.

Straightening, he turned and walked back into the house.

**

"Marco."

A splash to his right and Chris turned, eyes closed and wading in shoulder height water.

"Polo," he heard from his left. He swiveled, keeping his weight on his left leg, and letting his right float freely.

A soft laugh and then more splashes. Fingers traced over his thigh and he jumped away.

"You're a fucking mermaid," he whispered, the glare of the sun bright red through his eyelids.

"Am I," said a voice in his ear and he spun, his hands cutting through the water and latching onto Tom's waist.

He opened his eyes and squinted through the sparkling glare, smiling when Tom's face came into view, all half moon dimples and soaked, spiky lashes.

"You are," he answered, wrapping Tom close. Gaze drifting to Tom's lips, Chris leaned forward and kissed them softly, cupping his ass as long legs circled his waist.

"I want to stay here forever...floating with you," Tom said, resting languidly on Chris's shoulders, head tucked against his neck. Chris relaxed into the water and let them drift easily, aimless.

"If only," he sighed, closing his eyes against the shine.

"Is everything alright, Chris?"

Chris lifted his head. "Yes. Absolutely. Why do you ask?"

"It's just that, you seemed distracted after your phone call from earlier. Upset. And I was just wondering if you're okay."

The edge of the water tickled the skin behind Chris's ears, giving him chills. He sighed. "That was Mike, my agent. I was talking to him about the pictures."

Tom's arms tightened around his waist. "Oh."

"So I guess it's my turn to ask you if _you're_ the one that's alright. Will your work have a problem with us being together?"

Tom shifted and rolled off Chris, linking their fingers and floating beside him.

“Maybe.”

“You signed something?”

Quietly, “Yes.”

Chris released his hand and turned away, swimming slowly to the stairs.

A splash as Tom straightened. “Chris—.”

“It’s not worth it, Tom. You can’t lose your job over this—.”

Tom was at his side in an instant, worried face peering at him. “Darling, stop. Please, don’t say that!”

Chris shook his head and shrugged him off.

It was so stupid of him to think that this might actually work out. But it wasn’t until Mike had said something about it that it occurred to Chris maybe this was why Tom had been panicked. His relationship with Chris, so new and recent and wonderful, would mean the end of his job with the therapy clinic. And maybe they could have made it work by keeping it a secret, by avoiding being seen in public together, but that piece of shit paparazzi had ruined it.

But that wouldn’t have been okay with Chris, he realized suddenly. There was no way that he would have been able to have Tom in his life and not want him with him everywhere. He could never hide Tom away, like he was some kind of dirty secret. He was the exact opposite.

He would be his brightest reason for existing.

“Darling, wait. Let me help—.” Tom scrambled after him.

Chris was at the stairs, bracing himself on the pebbled edge, angling his leg to limp out. Tears burst over his vision, and he blinked fast to clear it.

Blood pounding in his ears, he tried making sense of the sudden tightness in his chest, the way his eyes swam, his heart squeezing painfully. He barely heard Tom at all, only his own shallow breaths, gritted teeth holding back the sobs waiting just beneath the surface.

Half seeing, Chris stumbled out of the pool, despising himself for falling for someone when he knew it would never—.

He paused, staring blankly at the bright green grass before him, alarmingly aware of the beat of the heart in his chest.

Chris felt Tom take his elbow and he turned to him fast, unbelieving. It was a realization so profound and sudden, it cracked open in his chest, burning and ragged and raw.

But Tom’s eyes widened at his abrupt movement and he flinched, releasing Chris and falling back a step.

They remained there for a few moments, frozen, both breathing hard. Tom’s eyes remained shut tight, a tiny grimace on his face, as if bracing himself. He sank slowly until he was sitting on the low step, water lapping at his neck, head down.

Confused, Chris hesitated, watching him, hands itching to reach for him.

Climbing the rest of the way out, Chris shuffled down the pathway by the garden. At the door, he glanced back at Tom, who was sitting right where he left him, hands covering his face.

Throat tight, Chris shut his eyes and stepped in, closing the door behind him.

**

The ceiling fan whirred above him, drying the hot tears that had leaked, against his will, down his temples. Lying on his back on the unmade bed, he breathed in their scents lingering on the sheets.

Tom had been his for all of a single day.

Maybe it would extend to the rest of the weekend, but he wouldn’t blame Tom if he left at that moment. Better to nip it in the bud than to allow it to grow into something they both would have hurt feelings over later on.

It was all a matter of disconnecting. Chris could do that. He’d been doing it all his life.

But why did his chest hurt so much just imagining doing that to Tom? Closing him off, distancing himself, sleeping in a bed without him to hold?

Chris blinked slowly, fresh tears spilling again.

Some time passed and the house remained quiet. He wasn’t sure if Tom had come inside or not. Turning to the window, he imagined him still sitting out in the pool, shoulders shaking, looking just as lost as Chris felt.

Closing his eyes to it all, Chris hoped to lend himself to the quiet relief of sleep and the dark recess of the long hallway that stole all thought from him.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely duskyhuedladysatan <3

A sound woke him. The room was darker, muted, not quite night. Keeping his eyes closed, he heard the door click shut and then padding footsteps on the carpet. A dip in the bed jostled his body a bit, but he inhaled quietly when warm hands smoothed over his stomach, feet tucking under his calves. Tom nestled close to Chris, anchoring himself tight.

Chris lifted his arm and wrapped it behind Tom’s back, hand curving over his waist.

“I’m not going to leave you.”

He heard Tom’s whisper and tears blurred his sight again, quick and hot and shamelessly relieved. He inhaled quietly, the smell of chlorine strong in his nostrils, trying control the flow of tears, and half turned on his side, scooping Tom into his arms and hugging him hard.

Even with all his doubts, he knew the only reason why any of this would end would be if Tom so willed it. Chris would have gladly let him go if it meant Tom’s happiness, however miserable Chris would have been for the rest of his life. But maybe it didn’t have to be so. With Tom by his side, Chris felt the weightlessness of guaranteed victory, no matter what he attempted. Because everything that had come before this moment, before this sudden knowledge bursting over him like the fresh foam of the cold tide at dawn, Chris felt as if he’d had to put up a tremendous fight to get anything in his life. His independence and distance from his family, his training and position on the team, his privacy and solitude, so valued to him.

But now, it was easier to see that every decision he’d ever made, every person he’d ever met, and subsequently avoided, led him to this point, this decision, this person.

“You’re worth it,” he heard himself whisper. “I’m sorry. For before. When I just walked away from you outside. I—I realize now how that seemed. Like I wasn’t even going to give us a chance. Give you a chance.” His heart danced a frantic beat, suddenly worried that Tom would disappear from his arms. “It’s not like that. I choose you over everything. Because you’re the most important person to me. And I will fight for us. If you’ll let me.”

Tom let out a small sob and reached for Chris. Their lips sought each other frantically, Chris’s tears seeping between them. His hands roamed the lean plane of Tom’s back, settling wide on his sharp shoulder blades, pulling him close. Tom’s leg rose over Chris’s hip, the heel of his foot urging Chris to roll over him.

“Darling, I’m sorry, too. For all of it. I never expected you. I never expected to feel what I feel for a client. Never. When I signed that contract, I was overjoyed to be taking this step in my career and…I just…I never believed that you would walk in that door and I would feel this…this way for—.”

His voice was thick was tears, just as Chris knew his own was.

“Shh, baby,” he murmured, nuzzling Tom’s cheek, hand inching down to fasten Tom’s leg higher on his hip. Drawing back, he blinked and cleared his throat, gathering his courage. “Tom…I’m going to say something right now and you need to know that…that I don’t expect you to—.”

“I love you.”

“W-what?” Chris asked, stupidly.

Tom’s smile was small, breathless, lashes fluttering as he looked up at Chris, who gaped at him, lips parted. He laughed quietly, cradling his face in the cool grip of his fingers. “I love you, Chris. With everything…here,” he said, laying a long hand on his own chest. “Everything.”

“Tom,” Chris whispered, all but moaning his name. He kissed him again, rolling to settle his weight more evenly over his boyfriend. And fuck, if that didn’t sound nice.

Tom opened his legs and let Chris relax heavily on him, his thighs like pale wings in the dark. “Tom, you’re mine. I love you more,” Chris breathed along the flushed skin of Tom’s neck, adoring the feel of the long lean body arching beneath him, his back undulating, voice breathing his name. “More than anything. I can’t stand this feeling in my chest. It’s all you.”

They rolled, lips still connected, moaning the other’s name. Tom straddled his hips as Chris reached for the lube on the bedside table. Tom took it from him and poured some into his palm. Reaching back, he started stretching himself, eyes wide on Chris’s face, all the better to catch every flicker of emotion.

And when he finally sank down onto Chris, he shuddered and balanced himself on his chest, squeezing his pecs with those long, pointed fingers, like tiny scratches of sand from when Chris practically lived on the beach as a child.

“My darling. My love,” Tom whispered, rising and falling steadily, letting the drag and pull of his flesh fill Chris’s blood with burning, with light, with his very name. He was as weightless as a cloud on him, and as heavy as Chris believed one’s own heart felt in the cupped sling of his joined palms, beating pleasantly, surprisingly, steadily beside another.

Chris tugged on his arms until their chests were flush, mouths seeking, Tom arching his neck to him, an offering.

“Mine? You’re mine?” Chris whispered, nose bumping along his skin smelling of the sun.

“Yes, yes, I’m yours,” Tom said softly, whimpering when Chris wrapped his arms around the back of his waist and set his good leg on the bed. Holding Tom still, he fucked up into him, claiming kiss after kiss, their tongues bumping. Tom’s body bounced, tiny cries falling like wisps from his mouth as their skin slapped loudly.

“Right there, right…there,” Tom panted, forehead pressed to Chris’s collarbone, scrabbling at his shoulders to hold on. Voice breaking, Tom whispered at his chest. “Fuck, darling, please.”

On a particularly hard thrust, without Chris needing to touch him, Tom tightened and cried out, spilling between stomachs, becoming slick with his seed. He trembled, cock jumping, and let Chris gather him up, riding out his climax. Thick ribbons of come burst from his cock, eyes rolling back, lashes fluttering.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Chris murmured, holding the side of Tom’s face, eyes wide to catch every brow twitch, every whimper.

Flipping them carefully, Chris set Tom on his back and angled one of his legs up, fingers digging hard enough into the lean muscle of his thigh, pumping hard, seeking his own release. There were sure to be grape sized bruises in the morning.

“Darling…Christopher…yes…p-please,” Tom stammered, body bouncing with every thrust. “God, I want it deep. Please make it deep, my darling.”

And when he came, spurred on by the breathy moans curling over his ears, Chris shouted, stilling his hips and then thrusting again and again, stilling once more, finishing with a groan. He gathered Tom as close as he could, sighing into his neck. Emptying himself into Tom was one of the most exhilarating things he’d ever done in his life, already yearning for the chance to do it again.

Panting, they lay bound together, sweat cooling between them. Lifting his head, Chris cupped Tom’s cheeks, staring at him in the gloom.

“No one will take you from me, Tom. Or us from each other. No one.”

“No, love. No one. I won’t allow it,” Tom said, eyes shining, teeth bright in the dark like winking stars at night. He kissed the tip of his nose softly and Chris moaned, easing his weight down gently. They lay in a semi-doze, Tom smoothly running his fingers through Chris’s hair, scratching at his scalp, hand straying to his shoulders.

Chris was in a daze, eyes blinking slowly, hearing the pounding of Tom’s heart.

They eventually rose, stifled giggles in the near dark, stumbling down the hall to the bathroom. Laying in the tub, they rinsed their bodies of chlorine and semen, sucking bruises onto each other's necks, the skin moist and sensitive and clean.

Too spent to gain another erection, they rutted against each other slowly, the small aftershocks of pleasure enough to placate them, gasping into each other's mouths, smiling lazily as steam rose to the ceiling.

Once dry and tumbled warm and naked in their bed, Tom limped into the kitchen and brought two bowls of cereal back to the bedroom.

Collapsing against the headboard, they took turns flipping through the channels on the television.

Placing their empty bowls on the bedside table, Chris tucked Tom under his arm and clicked the remote again.

_The Exorcist_ was coming out on one of the premium channels.

"Oh, it's just starting," he said, settling down to watch.

Tom stiffened beside him. "What are you doing?"

"It's _The Exorcist_ ," Chris said uselessly, pointing.

"I don't want to watch it." Tom kept his eyes on Chris's face, refusing to even turn in the television's direction.

Chris paused, a slow smile breaking over his face. "Wait. Have you ever watched it?"

He could see the flush on Tom’s skin even in the jumping grey and white light of the movie's reflection. "No."

Chris tossed his head back and laughed, hugging Tom close. "You're kidding me! Babe, why?"

Tom squirmed, looking distinctly embarrassed. "I just…haven't. And I don't want to now."

"It's really not that bad. C'mon, it's the seventies. We can laugh at how the special affects make it not scary at all."

"Oh, right. That's rich, especially considering the fact that only the entire world is in agreement that it's by far the scariest movie ever made."

Chris lowered the volume, the cryptic dialogue and music drawing Tom's nervous eyes, his hands rigid. "What are you afraid of?" he asked gently.

Tom looked down, eyes drifting to the screen again and then darting back to meet his. "I don't...I don't know! I just don't like those kinds of things. Like ghosts and demons and places I am unfamiliar with."

Chris remembered Tom remarking on how his house was kind of spooky at night, all dark and quiet with just the two of them and all those empty rooms.

Tom shrugged. "And...well. I sleep alone and I don't like to give myself even more reason to be afraid at night," he finished softly, clasping his hands in his lap.

Chris turned to him, taking his hands gently. "You don’t have to be afraid with me, Tom. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Tom looked down, lacing their fingers together.

“I’m serious.” Scooting closer, Chris reached for Tom’s legs and anchored them over his lap, rubbing his hand over his calves, soft hair running smoothly beneath his palm. Tom cast him an amused smile. “Do you remember one of the first conversations we had? It was just after we first met and I was being…rather difficult,” Chris started, narrowing his eyes when Tom lifted a brow at the memory. “Shut it,” he said in playful warning, flexing his hands on Tom’s ribs, ready to tickle him.

Tom gasped and arched, clutching his forearms. “No, no, no, Christopher. I’ll behave,” he said, breathless, smiling. Chris kissed his lips once, a small peck.

“It was when I told you why I was so guarded around other people. And you told me that you couldn’t understand why I was alone.”

Tom nodded, the movie forgotten.

"Well, in all this time that I've known you, finding out how amazing you are, how loving...I never understood the same about you. Why you've been alone all along."

After a small hesitation, Tom smiled, shrugging lightly. “It’s just…one of those things that happens, I suppose. We can’t always be with someone all the time.”

“But you’re…you,” Chris said, shaking his head at how stupid he sounded. “How has someone not snatched you up yet?”

Tom’s face softened, his brows drawing together adorably. “I was under the impression that someone recently had.”

Chris stared at him, his heart stalling. Cupping his cheek, he looked Tom right in the eye, voice rough with the heavy emotion bubbling up his throat. “I love you. And yes, I’ve snatched you up. You hear me?”

Tom laughed and leaned their foreheads together. “Yes, my giant. I hear you.”

Chris growled, loving the nickname already. His eyes drifted to Tom’s lips.

Someone screamed on the television and Tom jumped with a small gasp, turning to look.

But Chris caught his jaw at the last second and crashed their lips together, his tongue seeking. Tom moaned and opened his mouth, wrapping his arms around Chris’s neck, his attention from the movie diverted.

“Your legs are so long,” Chris murmured when he broke away, swiping his hand down Tom’s naked thigh. “How am I taller than you?”

Tom chuckled. “It’s only an inch or two, darling.”

“Only an inch or two?” Chris smiled slowly, leaning down further. “Is that all it takes to make a…difference?”

“Sometimes, y-yes,” Tom whispered. He swallowed, eyes darting between Chris’s, looking as Chris rose over him, hand tightening on his hip. Rapt, Chris watched as Tom’s pupils expanded in the flickering light of the television, the blue slowly eclipsed by pure black.

Chris pressed him back until they were lying horizontal on the bed, cradled between Tom’s thighs. He searched, hand shooting under the covers for the bottle of lube and finally found it by the foot of the bed.

Tom had his eyes shut tight, facing away from the television, where Linda Blair’s scarred and pale face was screaming some obscenity or other, her eyes an eerily pale green, luminescent and wicked and possessed.

Chris touched Tom’s cheek and Tom whimpered softly, burrowing further under him.

“Nothing will hurt you here. Nothing. I won’t let it,” Chris said softly, trailing kisses along Tom’s jaw, his slicked hand reaching between them, fingers breaching.

Tom gasped again and widened his legs.

“My kitten,” Chris murmured. “Want me to turn it off?” Tom nodded fast, fingers curling behind Chris’s ears. Chris kissed his cheek. “Okay, love.” He reached for the remote behind him and hit the power button. The room was drenched in sudden darkness and they held still, Chris still leaning away from Tom.

“Darling,” Tom whispered, fingers grappling blindly along Chris’s forearm. His voice echoed strangely in the room. “Darling, please come back to me.”

Chris let the remote drop and hurried back, Tom’s arms wrapping around him immediately, lips kissing every inch of his face.

“Don’t let me go,” Tom whispered, bumping their chins together.

“Never,” Chris breathed back, hand reaching down between them again. “Not tonight. Not ever, Tom. I’ve got you.”

Tom cried out when Chris pressed two fingers in at once, arching up, their chests bumping. Pumping his hand slowly, Chris twisted his wrist and scissored his fingers, slow, slow, swallowing every moan and whimper Tom made. And when he finally slipped into him minutes later, it was in one smooth glide so that Tom felt the stretch of every inch, trembling beneath him, hands clawing at him to be closer, to be on him, to be his without space between.

They rocked together, bent and yearning, Chris wanting all thoughts of scary movies and strange houses and bumps in the night to flee Tom’s mind. He wanted him free and unhindered, unburdened by anyone but Chris.

“F-fuck,” Tom whined, voice breaking. His head fell back. “You’re hitting it. Chris, right there, please don’t stop. You’re hitting it.”

Chris kept the same rhythm, his eyes adjusting slowly to the darkness, barely able to make out Tom’s body beneath him. But it was enough to guide him by, as Tom hands skimmed his shoulders, curling around his neck, pulling him down for more kisses.

“Touch me, touch me…please,” Tom begged. “Make me come. I’m so close.”

Chris felt his blood sing, knowing words like from Tom had been heard by no one by him, not in years.

He gripped Tom’s cock and, hips thrusting, matched his hand movements, squeezing gently at the tip until he felt the pulses of Tom’s climax.

Tom half moaned, half cried out, seizing, his nails dragging down Chris’s back. Chris hissed and stilled his hips, unable to thrust with Tom tightening around him. Long strings of come shot out over Tom's chest and neck, a fucking delight to Chris, who strained to see, fascinated. He gave long strokes to Tom's twitching cock, squeezing out a few extra drops, spilling thickly from the wet tip.

It was a slow wind down for Tom, who writhed beneath him, panting. He remained tight around Chris, still giving small pulses.

“Baby,” Chris whispered, white spots dancing before his eyes, needing to thrust. “Baby, let me move, love. I need to…” he grimaced, holding himself above Tom, his hand slick with seed. “…c-come.”

Dazed, Tom blinked owlishly up at him, and then widened his legs even further, relaxing his lower muscles.

Chris gathered Tom in his arms and squeezed him tight, snapping his hips forward. Tom gasped loudly and clung to Chris all the harder.

“You come in me,” Tom moaned in his ear. “Go on, I want it.”

Chris, dizzy with lust at how thick Tom’s accent became during sex, thrust roughly until, with a burst of light in his brain, he came.

All noise was snuffed out and there was a ringing somewhere in his veins. He pulsed deep, vaguely recognizing the butterfly caresses on his face to be Tom’s fingers. His murmurs eventually broke through Chris’s delirium, and he inhaled, shaking.

Easing down slowly into Tom’s embrace was the exact balm he needed to recover from his orgasm. Small tremors swept through his body as he groaned softly at Tom's neck, his hips pulling back and pushing in again and again, wringing out every last wave of pleasure.

Tom chuckled low, kissing Chris's forehead. "I love how heavy you are on me," he mused, shifting and drawing another weak groan from Chris, who was still embedded in him.

"We aren't sixteen anymore," Chris grumbled, half asleep. "How are we doing this?"

Laughing, Tom shushed him. "Don't question. Just do! And keep doing, my darling."

Chris raised his head and nuzzled Tom’s cheek. "I love you, kitten."

Tom's smile was wide and bright in the darkness, his hand cupping Chris's cheek. "I love you, my giant."

Chris felt, for all the world, as if he would float away at those, sweet, lovely, indescribably perfect words.

**

After slipping out of Tom and crowding under the covers together, they fell asleep facing each other, Tom’s thigh squeezed between Chris’s legs. It wasn’t until sometime later that Chris woke up to Tom draped over him, clutching him tight.

Tom squirmed and made a small noise in the back of his throat, hand curving over Chris’s pectoral, his stubbled cheek pressed to the hard line of his collarbone.

Chris tried to peer down at him, but couldn’t make anything out in the dark.

“Baby,” he whispered, running a hand over Tom’s hair.

Tom whimpered, nose pushed into Chris’s neck. Chris realized he was still asleep and was probably dreaming.

“Shh, it’s okay,” he murmured, wrapping Tom in his arms, squeezing and lending him his warmth. “Nothing is here, babe. No one but me. I’ve got you, Tom. I’ve got you.”

Tom quieted after a moment, relaxing only minutely the hold he had on Chris. He sighed softly and settled more comfortably against him, never waking.

Chris lay there, fingers stroking lightly over Tom's naked shoulder, wondering at the immense feeling of pride and worth it gave him, that Tom would need him just as much as Chris needed Tom. That Tom had chosen him to trust and love and share his intimacy with, even after Chris’s rude display of impatience and frustration early in their acquaintance, made Chris lightheaded with relief and a deep sense of determination not to let him down too.

**

The rest of the weekend passed in a spin of swimming, eating in bed, watching movies on the couch, and making love on every available surface. Tom made sure to set time aside for Chris's therapy, which always left them sweaty and drained, but smiling. Chris would have his leg back to normal soon. He could already feel the long stretch of unhindered muscles, the ligaments expanding with ease, yielding to the demand of his body and will of his mind. He couldn’t wait.

As far as Chris knew, Tom hadn't charged his phone following whatever cryptic message he'd received about the paparazzi pictures in the newspaper. It lay dead on the kitchen counter, forgotten.

Chris was still curious as to exactly who had sent the text message, but he didn't want to bring up the subject again, especially as they had a more pressing matter with the issue of Tom's work.

"What will they do?" Chris asked on Sunday night. "If they find out?"

Tom, who was lying on Chris, trying to catch his breath from Chris's rather vigorous thrusting, sighed. "I could always deny it was me that day with you. Some doppelgänger or something. Even if," he said, lifting his head, eyes dancing over Chris's face in the dark. "I don't want to hide you or deny you in my life. Ever."

"You know you can, right? If it helps you keep your job, you can do that. I don't mind. I'm nobody, really, and—."

Tom pressed a finger to Chris's lips, silencing him. "Now don't you start with your nonsense, Christopher. You're a very important someone, especially to me. Are you trying to tell me that that means nothing to you?" He had a teasing smile on his face, but still Chris's heart skipped a beat.

"It means everything to me," he whispered.

Tom moaned softly and leaned in for a kiss. Chris's cock made a valiant effort to get hard again, twitching slightly, but before he could put more thought into it, Tom relaxed against him again, nosing his neck, trailing kisses over the soft underside of his jaw.

"My contract forbids relationships with clients, calling for an immediate end to the relationship, after which I would be put back on probation, or for me to resign voluntarily. Otherwise my employment would be terminated straightaway. But my boss is a reasonable man. I’ve known him for some years. I’ll talk to him tomorrow. I don’t want you worrying about anything yet."

Chris blinked, already thinking about how he could fix this. He needed to fix this. He needed this to work.

He needed Tom.

"And anyway, the photograph is blurry, darling. Only a...rare few could have identified me from them." Before he could figure out what that meant, Tom was jumping to his feet and pulling Chris to his.

"Bath time, my giant."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whispers* I'm working on Stray Not From Me I promissssssse.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely duskyhuedladysatan <3

Because they had done extra sessions over the weekend, Tom felt Chris deserved a break from therapy on Monday. But even after an early breakfast and coffee sipped on the veranda, they were both reluctant for him to leave.

“Don’t go,” Chris whispered, crowding Tom against the wall by the front door, kissing his neck.

Tom, keys in hand, chuckled and curled his fingers into the back of Chris’s shirt, letting the blunt edge of his nails scratch matching stripes across flexed shoulder blades. “I’ll be back as soon as I can, my darling. I have to run home after work and feed Felix—.”

“Felix?”

“My fish. I really hope he hasn’t died. And I need to wash my clothes and make sure that nothing’s burned down. But I’ll be back.” He pulled Chris’s face up and kissed his lips. “I promise.”

Chris watched Tom drive off, sunlight glinting off the windshield at the last second, blocking his view of Tom’s face, feeling the immensity of the empty house at his back.

He hit the weights with a vengeance, bench pressing dozens of reps, urging his mind to think of something other than his new lanky boyfriend.

_Boyfriend._

He shook his head, breathing through a new set. How had that even happened? He’d walked into his first therapy session with such reluctance and obvious anger; it was a miracle Tom hadn’t turned from him immediately.

Sweat dripped off his skin by the end of the second hour, limbs aching, adrenaline coursing and revving his heart. He hobbled to the bathroom, fingers trailing the walls. He eyed the tub warily, but stepped in as carefully as he could, showering quickly. He returned to his room after towel-drying and changed into basketball shorts and an old practice shirt from his college days.

Appetite roaring, he heated up some food Judy had left for him in the fridge and then took his pain medication.

Every room reminded him of Tom. How had this man burst into his life and left his mark so iridescently, like prism light, nearly everywhere? There were left over napkins from the pizza company they’d ordered from, and still moist towels from their time in the pool hanging on the veranda chairs. There were two cups and two plates and two forks in the draining rack by the sink. All that was missing was a grainy snapshot of the two of them on some mountain peak, their smiling faces barely fitting into the frame. Such photographs always infuriated Chris when belonging to others. He now greatly desired to have one of Tom.

The entire bed held their mixed scents and that’s where Chris headed next, feeling the swimming effects of his medication. Lying face down, he pressed his nose to the sheets and breathed in, fast asleep within minutes.

He woke a couple of hours later. It was early afternoon and the sun’s rays bounced off the walls in a different direction than before he’d fallen asleep.

Reaching for his phone on the bedside table, he saw he had two missed calls, one from his agent Mike, and the other from Tom. He called Tom first but it went to voicemail.

“Probably with a patient,” he mumbled. He typed out a text message.

_I miss you._

He felt heat creep up his neck and called himself a damn fool for blushing in private.

Ignoring Mike’s call, he headed into the kitchen for more food. When he got back to the room, fruit Popsicle in hand, there was a text from Tom.

_My giant. I miss you too._

Chris felt his heartbeat quicken, feeling like he was back in high school. Parking the Popsicle between his teeth, he moved his thumbs over the screen.

_How’s work? Any word?_

_Nothing yet. Haven’t been able to talk to my boss. I told you they wouldn’t know it was me._

_I’m still worried._

_Don’t be, my love. Whatever happens, I won’t give you up._

His chest constricted, not knowing what he could have possibly done to deserve such a man.

_But that’s just it_ , he told himself. _You don’t deserve him_.

Before he could go down that dark road, he replied.

_I love you. I can’t wait to see you._

_I’m hoping for tonight, but tomorrow for your session for sure, darling. I love you too._

Chris relaxed into the bed again, sucking the treat in his mouth, ice cold strawberry sugared on his tongue. Closing his eyes, he remembered the split wide smile on Tom’s face as Chris chased him under the sheets, billowing up to fall over them softly, Tom laughing beautifully as Chris danced his fingers over the bowed cage of his ribs, allowing Chris to do the same, freely.

He sighed, flipping over onto his back, the wooden Popsicle stick wet between his lips. Wondering vaguely how Tom would feel if Chris offered him a key to his house, he lumbered to his feet and headed down the hall to his weight room.

**

Tom wasn’t able to make it back to Chris’s house that night.

“It was a coworker’s birthday today so we stopped for a drink after work.”

Chris hugged the phone to his ear as he lay on the couch, a football game on mute before him. Tom sounded slightly out of breath, moving around his home.

“And then I stopped for groceries, which I’m putting away now. Can you believe the price of milk? Incredible,” he muttered, banging stuff around his kitchen.

Chris chuckled. “I have no idea. Judy buys all the food.”

“She’ll spoil you rotten,” Tom laughed.

“You spoil me.”

“And I want to continue to do so.” His voice lowered. “I thought of you all day.”

“Me too.”

They were silent and then both laughed quietly, Chris’s face hot.

“How’s Felix?” he asked, pillowing an arm behind his head.

“Disconsolate,” Tom laughed. “He won’t even look at me. Been turned into a corner of his tank ever since I got here. Angry littler bugger. I was only gone a few days.”

“Just feed him and he’ll come around.”

“Like a cat, he is,” Tom muttered, but Chris could tell he was smiling. “I still need to wash. But I’ll be by tomorrow, love.”

“Okay. Don’t be scared without me.”

“Goddammit, Christopher, if I think about that little girl’s hideous face I will drive over there and sleep curled on your lap all night.”

“Mmm, by all means, please do.”

“You’re impossible. And I love you.”

It still made a hole burn in his chest to hear those words, the edges furling away to lick flames at his lungs, a daring feeling of self heating its way through him. “I love you, too.”

They said good night and Chris flicked the volume back on, feeling the gaping silence of the rest of his house surround him from all sides.

**

He did not sleep well.

The room was too hot, he kept waking to noises he'd thought he heard in the hallway or outside his window. At one point, he could have sworn a hand glided over the sensitive underside of his foot and he yanked his leg up onto the bed, eyes wide in the dark.

He woke irate and sore only a few hours later wishing he could go jogging, the urge to run and stretch the limits of his endurance like a heavy ache in his heart.

**

_Door is open. I’m in the weight room._

Chris had sent that text almost an hour ago and now he lay on the floor mat, breathing ragged, letting his heart rate slow. He was eating regularly again and taking his protein and working his upper and lower body as much as he could. Only his right leg went uncontested, but he patted at his thigh softly, a silent promise to push it to the max come fall.

His stomach muscles protested as he sat up and slowly climbed to his feet.

Just as he finished gulping a bottle of water in the kitchen, he heard the telltale sound of a vehicle approaching. Looking out the window, he spotted Tom getting out of his car, sports bag in hand. He dropped the plastic bottle in the sink and hurried to the door.

Tom was just opening it when Chris rounded the corner. His smile was wide. "Darling, hi—."

Chris slammed the door shut and grabbed his head to kiss him, Tom dropping the bag at their feet. He moaned and wound his arms around Chris's neck, pulling at him until they collided with the wall.

Drawing back, Chris tugged at Tom’s shirt until it came untucked from his pants and then snaked his hands under, skimming over his ribs, thumbs grazing his nipples. Tom hissed and arched, gripping Chris's shorts.

"Fuck, I missed you.”

"Darling. God—."

"Your spooks latched on to me last night, Thomas."

"They’ll have to fight me for you,” Tom said, grinning. “I take it you didn't sleep well either."

Chris palmed the back of Tom's head and kissed his neck to bruise. Tom gasped and rolled his hips against him. "You've ruined all nights for me."

"I'm so sorry," Tom gasped, not sounding sorry in the least.

"Stay with me," Chris murmured, grinding his pelvis on him.

"Oh darling, yes. Yes, I will. Anything to avoid how last night went."

Chris growled playfully, and nipped at the bobbing throat before him. Tom gasped and jumped in his arms, baring his neck further. "So you admit to staying here for entirely selfish reasons."

"Oh, yes," Tom said seriously, eyes half lidded. "This is the last place I want to be after all. I can hardly tolerate you as it is."

Chris held still against his skin, blinking for a full moment, feeling his heart turn even though he knew Tom was only joking.

"You wound me," he whispered, eyes cast down.

Tom's hands cradled his face gently and angled it up so their eyes met. "I wound myself, to speak such lies." He straightened and put both hands on Chris's shoulders, pushing gently until Chris met the wall behind him. Tom's voice was soft when he spoke, his eyes a watercolor blue. "I've thought of nothing but you. When I was supposed to be counting reps, I was remembering the exact flex of your thigh muscle as you part my legs. This poor woman nearly did forty squats before I remembered to tell her to stop. We had a good laugh about it. Said it was alright because she needed it. And I realized quite suddenly that I needed you. The day couldn't end fast enough." He stepped closer and Chris swallowed, eyes darting to Tom's lips, to the small smile there, his white teeth peeking. "I've had the most delicious ache in my body today, Chris. I could hardly sit at all. Counting the hours to when I could hold you again, kiss you again, have you in me again."

Chris jumped forward and crashed their lips together, tongues twisting and yielding and so warm.

Taking Tom's hand, wishing he could just fucking carry him down the hall, Chris turned toward the bedroom.

"Bag, careful with the bag, love," Tom whispered, kicking his sports bag out of the way before Chris tripped over it.

"Therapy later," Chris muttered and dragged him to the room.

Once inside, Tom moaned, pressing his face to Chris’s neck. "You're all sweaty, love." He pulled Chris's shirt over his head. "I love it so much. Oh, please get it all over me." His eyes widened as he glided his hands over Chris's slick shoulders, curving them down his back and over his waist, letting his fingers skim over the trail of hair below his belly button.

He pulled Chris down and flopped to the bed, their mouths crashing together again.

"All these...damned...buttons," Chris growled at Tom's shirt, his fingers clumsy and rough. "Take it off or I'm going to tear it off you."

Tom's eyes fluttered closed, his face flushing the loveliest pink. "My darling," he moaned, ridding himself of the shirt in a second. They fumbled at each other's waists, Tom pushing down the shorts Chris wore, while Chris yanking at Tom's belt.

"Slow, please slow," Tom whispered when Chris sank in the first finger, slick with lube. He grimaced and held still, holding his legs open with a hand at each knee. Chris worked him until he was wet and trembling, and pulled him to the edge of the bed, bending low on his good knee. Aligning himself, he pushed in, eyes sharp on Tom's face, watching for pain or discomfort, knowing he must still be sore.

There were tiny winces and gasps, but Tom's fingers pulled at Chris's hips, urging him with faint whispers.

"Yes, my love. Deep into me. Come here," he murmured, pulling until Chris was flat on his chest. "Rub it on me, yes, just like that, god..."

He whined as Chris gathered him and cradled him and smothered him with his sweat, his skin, his kisses.

“I love this,” Tom whispered, carding his fingers over Chris’s scalp. “So much hair. It’s so _thick_.” He gave it a good tug and smiled when Chris moaned and snapped his hips forward.

He started to rock steadily. Tom wound his legs around his waist and smoothed back his damp hair, whispering his name sweetly.

It was becoming more and more apparent, to his immense delight, that Tom had a thing for sweat and semen. He thrummed his fingers on the flat discs of Chris's shoulders, letting their skin fuse together before peeling apart.

"You like my sweat on you?"

Tom nodded fast.

"You like to smell of me? Have my scent all over you? Claiming you?"

Tom eyes drifted closed, a visible ripple through his spine. "God, yes."

"You like my come in you? Want me to fill you up?"

Tom moaned, arching his back, trying to meet Chris's fast pace. "Yes, darling, yes!" He rocked beneath him, a desperate whimper caught on his lips.

Reaching between them, Tom started pulling on his cock, which was red and plump. "My giant. And my dove, all in one." He grimaced, looking down to where Chris disappeared in and out of him. "I'm overwhelmed by you...please, don't let me go. I love you."

"Tom." Tears filling his eyes, Chris held him, lips hovering, swallowing his every small cry, loving the burning dig of Tom's nails in his back, hoping they would look like small crescent moons when he checked in the mirror later, like miniatures of his lovely dimples.

When Tom came, it was a soundless kind of hurricane. Body tight, he cried out once and then quieted, jerking up, neck bent, lips parted, his thighs clamped down on Chris, stilling him. Tom's cock pulsed languidly between them, come pooling on his chest.

Holding himself high, Chris watched him fall apart, never having seen something so beautiful, like a flower opening to the first rays of the sun.

"There you are, baby," he whispered, his own climax taking him suddenly, powerfully, as he blinked and watched the veins in Tom's neck stand out. He spent deep inside, giving small thrusts, his vision winking in and out with blessed relief. "Breathe, baby. Breathe, come on."

Tom slowly came back to him, inhaling deep, body going limp in his arms, legs sliding down and sagging open. He rocked beneath Chris's final thrusts, moaning as Chris started to seep out of him, running thickly down his thighs and dripping to the floor.

Blinking up at him, Tom trailed his fingers down Chris's face, smiling like the sated mermaid he was. "You are divine," he whispered.

Chris shook his head, because Tom had it all wrong. "No," he said, voice rough. Hauling him close, he nibbled at his ear, chuckling when Tom squirmed. "You are. I love you. I love you."

Giggling, Tom sighed and let Chris pull him to his feet, their destination a hot bath.

** 

After washing up, they jumped right into their therapy session. Tom noted with a wide smile the few degrees that Chris had gained in his leg movement, encouraging him to stretch every day and push himself a little farther. The swelling, while still present, had gone down significantly, allowing Chris more range in his exercises.

Tom created a new workout and therapy routine for Chris, one that would focus on endurance and strength, rather than just minimizing inflammation.

“Now that the ligament is repaired, you need to strengthen it. This will allow you to better perform in your training for fall. And to recovery any muscle tone lost to atrophy.”

Chris nodded along with him, determined to see this through.

Every evening following their sessions, they would shower and change, after which Tom helped prepare dinner, sometimes with Judy, whose favorite recipes had become part of the regular rotation at Tom’s insistence, and other times with just Chris, his eyes following him, quietly watching Tom move around the kitchen dusting herbs or other chopped condiments into their meal. Rather than leave so late at night, Tom began staying over more and more often, both completely at ease with this decision. Chris realized early on that he slept better with Tom beside him, and he thought that maybe Tom felt the same too.

One night on their way to bed, after turning off the lights in all the rooms, Chris lingered at the base of the stairs, tugging on Tom's hand to stall him.

“Do you think I can?” he asked after a moment.

“Said the little engine that could,” Tom replied, smiling. “It’s about how you feel, darling. But, yes, I definitely think you could.”

Chris kept his gaze on those twenty two steps, and then turned to Tom. “Will you help me?”

Tom's face softened and he gripped Chris's hand. "Of course I will. I will always help you, Christopher." 

The first few steps were easy enough. Chris kept a tight grip on the rail, the other arm wrapped around Tom's shoulder, counting each halting step loudly in his mind.

About halfway up, his leg started to ache, but Chris pushed through it, imagining it to be an exercise at the end of which he could rest, which, technically, was true. His bed was at the end of this tiny Mount Everest, the one he'd been missing for weeks now. Soft and fluffy and familiar. And his bathroom, with his wide shower stall and even wider bath where he and Tom could stretch out and linger if they felt so inclined.

He gritted his teeth, pushing up another step.

"You're doing wonderfully, Chris," Tom gasped, helping bear his weight.

Unsure how much time had passed, they finally stumbled up and over the last step, both panting and smiling.

"Darling, great job!” Tom exclaimed, embracing him. “You did it. I knew you could."

Chris rolled his eyes and leaned against the bannister. "I shall live up here forever and never venture into the outside world again."

"You silly duck," Tom smiled, taking his jaw and kissing his cheek.

But he did venture down, every morning when Tom left for work. They took it slow and steady, until Chris needed Tom's help less and less. Eventually, Tom carted all of Chris’s things back into the master bedroom, packing everything where it belonged, toiletries into the bathroom, clothing into the closet. Somehow, some of Tom’s own pieces of clothing began to get washed and folded with Chris’s things, put away in his own drawer and section of the closet. He kept a spare toothbrush in the bathroom; there were two mugs by the coffee maker, his own trail of tire tracks freshened every morning and night next to Chris’s stationary vehicle.

One morning after Tom left, Chris’s agent Mike called. Chris was in the backyard skimming the surface of the pool for leaves when he felt his pocket vibrating.

"Chris, how are you, kid?”

Chris actually smiled. "Not bad. I'm uh, much better, actually." His light tone surprised even him.

"That's great! Therapy going well?"

Chris explained his new workout regimen and the progress with his leg. He flexed his calf, enjoying the pull of healthy muscle.

"I'll be able to start running soon, hopefully," he said, worried about the possible decline in his conditioning these many months of limited cardio activity. Weight lifting certainly spiked his pulse, but there was nothing like pulling air tight into one's lungs in strong and quick measured breaths, something he could only liken to running. Or fucking Tom over the side of the bed, both panting and scrabbling for air.

He cleared his throat quickly. "Excellent. Good. I’m glad to hear it, kid. I’ll pass the word along to your coach. This is good news. Listen, I'm calling about what happened a few weeks ago, with the newspaper headlines."

Chris frowned, setting the skimmer aside. His agency had released a vague statement about the nature of his recuperation, how his health and goal to be ready for training in the fall was his main priority. And Tom hadn’t mentioned it again. He always turned off his cell phone whenever he stayed over at Chris’s house.

“What about it?”

“Took forever for someone to get back to me. But just yesterday I spoke with the editor-in-chief and she confirmed that no one on her staff took the pictures outside your house or the clinic. Said they were submitted to the paper anonymously. Said a note came with the package confirming who the man with you was on those two separate occasions, but that the newspaper decided to keep his name a mystery. Felt it would sell more copies.”

"They cannot release his name, Mike. His job is at stake."

"I know it is, Chris. Which is what I told them. And they said they would hold off for a while, but said they were at liberty to publish whatever was submitted to them, especially since they already confirmed his identity."

Chris stepped into the house, shutting the door behind him. "How the hell did they do that? They could have easily been given a false name. What kind of reporters are they?"

"Well, they obviously checked the source. The note came with your guys' place of employment. They verified when they checked online. His name and picture is on their website and everything."

"Fuck," Chris murmured, jaw clenching. He limped into the front foyer. "So basically we are at the mercy of some newspaper people who can publish his info whenever they feel so inclined? Can I pay them off?"

Mike chuckled on the other end. "You can try, but I would think twice about that, kid. In fact, I advise against it. I think your bigger concern here is finding out who is trying to seriously screw over your guy's life."

Chris ended the call with a quiet thank you, eyes drifting to Tom's sports bag on the floor by the front door, exactly where he liked to place it just before leaving for work every morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stray Not will be updated very, very soon. Please bear with me! Thank you!!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! This chapter is a bit longer than usual, but I thought it was necessary, especially considering the content. There's a lot of trying and failing not to cry; gratuitous crying in general.
> 
> Warnings for: physical abuse. 
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely duskyhuedladysatan <3

That evening after his therapy session and a light dinner, he and Tom sat on the grass in Judy’s garden. The sun was fading behind the tall line of trees, casting everything in a light glow, shadowy but still bright enough to see clearly.

Tom held a glass of wine loosely in one hand, legs crossed. “Fairy lights,” he murmured softly.

Chris, passing on wine because of his medication, frowned. “What?”

Tom smiled and gestured to the trees lined in fire. “My mother used to call this time of day the time of the fairy lights. Said this was when the fairies came out to fly in the dusky sky, would sing their twinkling songs and leave glitter dust in the air.”

Chris smirked. “I’ve never seen one.”

“Nor I. But still, it’s fun to believe in magic, I think.” Sipping with a smile, he asked, “Do you believe?”

Chris shrugged and picked at a handful of black soil. Looking up at Tom, he let the grains of dirt sift through his fingers. “I didn’t use to.”

Tom blinked and then smiled, never breaking eye contact as he tossed back his wine in one last gulp.

Behind them, the bud of daring green leaf Chris had spied weeks ago was now nearly a foot of bright, proud sapling, stretching bravely to the star-dotted sky above.

**

It took another two days for Chris to gather the courage to ask Tom about the photographs and who might have taken them. He was pacing the kitchen while Tom collected his wallet and keys from their bedroom before leaving for work.

After another few minutes, he ambled out to the bottom of the stairs and looked up, sensing no movement in the bedroom.

“Tom?”

He heard a noise like a bump, or something falling to the floor, and then Tom appeared out the doorway, running lightly down the stairs.

“I’m a bit late, darling. I’ll see you when I get out.”

Before he could get a word in about the photographs, Chris accepted the quick kiss on the cheek Tom gave him, unable to help but notice how Tom never met his eyes.

“Babe, what’s wrong? Is everything alright?”

Tom tucked his wallet into his back pocket, and shook his head quickly. “Nothing, dove. I’m quite alright. Don’t forget your stretches after lunch, okay? I’ll check in with you a bit later. Bye now.” He took Chris’s hand suddenly and squeezed, eyes meeting his briefly, before he was out the door.

Chris watched from the front walk as Tom hurried to his car and buckled in, before driving away, a plume of dust bursting from behind the back wheels. 

If Chris wasn’t mistaken, Tom looked…upset. Distracted. Had Chris said something? Done something wrong? He tried recalling the last couple of days, if he might have mistakenly overstepped his bounds, but he truly believed there were no more bounds between them. It had been as it always was with them. Open and free and affectionate and playful and lovely. Such as Chris never had before. There was no way to mistake it. He was sure of it.

As Chris closed the door behind him, one detail stood out starkly in his mind: Tom’s phone, clutched tightly in his hand, had still been brightly lit, as if more messages had been pouring in, even as Tom said his goodbye.

**

_Is everything alright?_

Chris hit send and then sat back in the chair, gritting his teeth. He didn’t like feeling uncertain about this, well about anything in general. And who did, really? But something about this newspaper situation, the very fact that it involved Tom and how Chris had no idea what had brought on this funny behavior, had him spooked. And maybe it was this whole mysterious business with the photographs. Chris didn’t like any of it. He wanted desperately to fix it, to rid Tom of the panicked look around the delicate skin of his blue eyes, clear like the waters he used to surf back home. He desperately wanted to make everything okay for Tom. But he couldn’t do that if he didn’t know what was going on.

Mike’s voice still floated around in his head.

_I think your bigger concern here is finding out who is trying to seriously screw over your guy's life._

That couldn’t be it, right? Who would want to hurt Tom? Who would want to threaten him in this way? Chris suddenly recalled the morning during their first weekend together, when Tom had left the bedroom abruptly to retrieve the newspaper. Someone had texted him just before.

Chris frowned. Was it his work? Were they being difficult with Tom about his involvement with Chris? Had they figured it out? He had half a mind to drive down there that very morning and speak with the head therapist, let him know exactly where he could stick every single one of those blurry photos. But he hesitated. He didn’t want to ruin any progress Tom might have made with his boss over the last couple of weeks. If there had been any immediate danger of losing his job, Tom would have told him, right?

His phone started chirping with his morning work out alarm. Silencing it, he stood with a huff and walked down the hall to his gym room.

By early afternoon, Tom still hadn’t responded to his text message, so he sent him another.

_Babe. Call me._

Still nothing after a couple of hours. Freshly showered, Chris paced the living room, a small worm of worry squirming through his gut, his anxiety for Tom’s safety skyrocketing.

Feeling like a damn fool, he dialed the number to the therapy clinic and heard Vanessa’s cheerful voice greet him. He asked for Tom.

“He’s in with a client at the moment, may I take a message?”

Chris hung up.

At least he was okay. But why wasn’t he responding to Chris?

Muttering, he went into the kitchen to fix himself a meal.

**

At half past five in the evening, Chris got a call from an unfamiliar number.

“Hello?”

“Darling.”

Relief flooded through him, even as his eyes drifted closed in quiet rage. “What the fuck, Tom?” That anger, the one he’d carried with him for most of his life, the only thing that made sense to him and felt like home, strived to rise to the surface, doubling his heart rate, sweat sprouting on his palms. But Chris quelled it, reminding himself that this was Tom, and that’s all it took, because he had a new home now and it was like the sweetest, softest touch on his roughened skin.

Tom’s sigh sounded heavy through the static. “I know, my darling. I know. I’m sorry. I stopped by the store this morning and changed my phone number. I got to work late and didn’t have a chance to let you know. I worked straight through my lunch. I’m starving.”

“Why would you do that?”

A small hesitation, but Tom knew exactly what he meant. “It’s rather complicated, love. I will explain everything after.”

“After what?”

“I came to my place. To feed Felix and grab some more clothes. I’ll be home to you a little later.”

Voice lowered, Chris asked, “What is going on, Tom? What the hell is this about? I knew something was wrong this morning when you left. Is it about the photographs in the paper? Is it work? Tell me, please.”

Tom’s voice, in turn, also lowered. “What do you mean, the photographs?”

“I mean, about the photographs in the newspaper, and who took them. Do you know who took them, Tom? Is that it?”

He heard the sharp squeaking sound distinct to a car braking and then a pinging noise as Tom’s door opened and closed. Chris pictured him walking up to his front door, and he realized, quite suddenly, that he had never been to Tom’s home before, didn’t even know his address. “I can explain everything in a minute. Let me just—.” He cut off suddenly with a startled gasp.

Chris stopped pacing, phone pressed tightly to his ear. “Babe?”

“Wait, just wait—,” Tom was saying, and Chris had no idea if he was talking to him or not.

A loud noise burst over his phone’s speaker and it sounded like the phone dropped to the ground, rough patchy blasts of grainy air only barely concealing Tom’s voice in the background, and another voice, male and deep.

“Tom?” Chris repeated, a little louder, his heart starting a frantic beat in his chest.

And when he heard Tom cry out in pain amidst the unmistakable sound of scuffling, Chris began spinning in place, eyes wide but seeing nothing, nothing except images of Tom on the ground outside his house, some unknown assailant standing over him.

“Tom!”

But it was no use, he heard their voices, words unintelligible, but there nevertheless, Tom begging the person to stop, to please listen.

Tom cried out again and Chris, heart in his throat, pressed the phone to his ear, cutting into his skin, straining to hear what was being said, what was _happening_.

Should he hang up and call the cops? But he didn’t want to sever this connection he had to Tom, however distant and helpless it made him feel.

More sounds, loud grunting, an obvious fight, and then another cry of pain, this time different. This time not from Tom.

“Baby,” Chris whispered, fingers clutching his phone as loud static filled his earpiece, startling him, like gravel sliding fast, and then more silence. But then he heard gasps of air as he thought perhaps that Tom might be running. He heard a car door slam and then another shout, this one sounding a lot like from fear or surprise, with muted thumps in the background. Someone banging on his car door window, Chris thought, teeth clenching in anger.

“Stop! Stop, stop, stop.”

Tom was whispering, it was so faint, but like a mantra, he kept repeating that one word, a stutter of other noises erupting over the phone speaker. Chris could hear the fear in his voice, and his stomach clenched. He thought he might be sick.

After another space of silence in which Chris felt his all the blood drain to his feet, he realized the pounding had stopped; only the steady low rush of noise that Chris associated with a car in motion. Finally, after what felt like a damn lifetime, he heard Tom’s voice, wrecked and tear-filled, but from some feet away.

“Chris?”

“Yes! Tom, I’m here!” 

Fumbling again and then Tom’s voice was loud in his ear. “Darling, are you there?”

“Yes, Tom. I am! I’m here! Are you okay? What happened? Where are you? Let me meet you.”

A quiet sob, a shaky intake of breath. “No, darling, stay where you are. I’m driving. I’m driving away. I got away.”

“From who? Tom, what the fuck just happened?”

More tears, quiet and heavy. “I’m coming to you, okay? I’m coming. Please wait for me.” And then the line disconnected and Chris stared down at his phone, open-mouthed and disbelieving.

Tom arrived exactly thirteen minutes later. Chris was at the front steps, pacing again, when headlights beamed past the gate at the front of his property. Tom practically fell out after he parked crookedly on the drive next to Chris’s car, running around the front fender to where Chris was limping to meet him. They fell into each other’s arms, breathless.

“Let me see. Let me take a look at you,” Chris mumbled against Tom’s neck. Tom was clinging tight to him, shaking violently, gasping as he breathed through his tears.

Very slowly, he let Chris draw back a few inches.

What Chris saw made his chest tighten with a renewed wave of rage.

Tom, brimming eyes cast down in the front porch lights, displayed a split lip, streaks of blood drying on his chin. And his cheekbone, mottled a bright red, was already starting to shine with a small crest of swelling that would be dark purple in the morning. Another tear slipped past Tom’s clumped lashes and he swallowed, slowly cringing from him.

“What happened?” Chris asked, fingers tightening on Tom’s arms, holding him there. “Who did this to you? Were you mugged? Is that it?”

Tom shook his head, still refusing to look at him.

“Babe,” Chris said, much softer, hands sliding up Tom’s arms to grip loosely at his neck, a gesture he hoped conveyed how very much he wanted to comfort Tom, to protect him and keep him safe. His thumbs grazed his chin, the sight of Tom’s split lip, bloodied, sent a buzz of fury through his veins, like the tiny angry murmuring of a swarm of wasps.

Tom must have realized the meaning behind his gesture because he breathed out unsteadily and then sagged against Chris, wrapping his arms tightly around him.

“It wasn’t a mugging,” he whispered.

“Then what the hell was it?”

A deep sigh and another squeeze of his torso. “It was my ex.”

Chris froze, hand stilling over the back of Tom’s head. Silent, Tom inched closer and clawed at his back, pressing his damp face to Chris’s neck.

“Come inside,” Chris said softly, fully aware of their very affectionate display and the faraway line of darkened trees at the edge of his property. He wrapped Tom under his arm and dragged him up the stairs, roving his gaze behind them at the night-casted front drive, closing the door with a satisfying click.

He set Tom down at the dining room table, and then gathered the first aid kit from the gym room down the hall. When he returned to the kitchen, Tom was patting at his face gingerly with the bottom of his shirt, spots spreading darkly into the material.

Hoping he appeared very calm, Chris spread out antiseptic wipes and a cream that would help with the swelling. His jaw was clenched tight, almost painfully, and he eased in a quick breath, relaxing the death grip in his teeth.

Hands shaking, Tom watched him quietly, lashes soaked. His breathing was shallow and his eyes looked to be glazing over. Shock, Chris thought, his jaw clenching again. Still, he leaned forward when Chris beckoned with one hand, but then paused, eyes shifting down.

“I don’t think you should do that,” he murmured.

“And why not?” Chris asked, hand still raised, moist wipe hanging.

“We should go to the police first,” Tom whispered. “I have to report this. Report that he violated the—the restraining order. They’ll need to take pictures for his record. I know an officer there who handled my previous case. He was very kind to me and he’ll take us right in.”

Chris sat back, pulse starting an angry beat again. A restraining order? How deep did this history go?

“It will be j-just a quick visit,” Tom said, leaning back and rubbing his forehead, weary, as if he’d done this before and simply knew.

But of course he’d done it before, Chris thought. The restraining order was already in place, obviously. Had he been alone when he’d first gone to the police? What amount of courage had it taken to walk into a police station and file a restraint against his significant other?

“Okay, baby,” he whispered, closing the first aid kit and reaching for Tom’s hands. Tom took them gratefully and then rose from his seat and folded himself over Chris’s lap, legs dangling off the side. He pulled him into a tight embrace, trembling anew.

Chris held him, still fighting the disbelief, like a blow to his solar plexus. His entire world had been knocked off kilter by the evening’s events, by the simple fact that Tom had been hurt and threatened. It all became stunningly clear: nothing else mattered but this man’s safety. Period.

He tried imagining who this ex-boyfriend was, what he looked like, if Chris was bigger than him, if he could overpower him. Didn’t matter, he realized as he cradled Tom to his chest. There wasn’t a single person on this earth that would defeat him in his attempt to protect Tom. He was confident in his size, his strength, his fury to know the truth in that.

“He hit you,” Chris murmured, tracing Tom’s bruised cheekbone with a finger. “You’re mine and he hit you.”

Tom looked down, almost defeated. But then he edged away, bristling slightly, and sat up.

“He did hit me. And it wasn’t the first time. He’d done it before. Years ago, until I finally had the to nerve to leave him. And it took me a long time to get him out of my system, Chris. To realize that what he’d done wasn’t love, or even exploration into a specific kink. It was abuse. But despite the distance and the separation, still he lingered. In my thoughts. In my actions. I refrained from letting myself feel anything for other men, because I was so afraid. Afraid of what he’d do. Until you, Chris. Until you walked into that clinic, so angry and hurt and beautiful.” He sighed quietly and half leaned into him again, eyes on the far off wall. “I like to count myself a person who is highly instinctual, having had to rely on feeling alone sometimes to survive something I was entirely unsure about. And with you, even with all your anger and obvious physical strength, much greater than my own, well, I trusted you. I still trust you. Implicitly. It’s in here,” he whispered, touching his own chest. “I know you won’t hurt me. I never had that sincere assurance with him. Even early on. It was always volatile, and I don’t know why I didn’t get out sooner. With the first breaking glass, the first split lip. The first bruises.” He smiled softly, as if confounded by his own hesitancy. He took Chris’s hands and looked up at him. “My darling. I _am_ yours. Entirely. But it’s also like Shire says: I belong deeply to myself.” He sighed. “I will not apologize for feeling afraid. For panicking. But I will apologize for making you worry. It was a terrible, terrible oversight on my part.”

Chris swallowed, mind scrambling for words to say.

Tom smiled, tired, and picked at a loose thread on his shirt. “The nights I’ve slept with you, Chris…all these weeks. Lying beside you, _resting_. It’s the best sleep I’ve had in years.”

Chris, tears threatening, pulled him into his arms and they sat curled together in the dining room chair.

“I want to know everything,” he whispered fiercely, palming the back of Tom’s head. Furious tears gathered in his eyes. “Will you tell me everything, Tom? About this man? What he did to you?”

Tom sighed into his neck, voice weary. “Later. Alright? I can’t right now. So much of that time…what I went through…it’s still extremely private for me. And not something that’s easy to talk about. I’d like to get this night over with and come back home with you.” Chris squeezed him in understanding. Tom sniffed and then started to rise. “I must say, I am very proud of you for how well you’re handling this.”

Chris rose after him and took his elbow gently. “You’re mistaken. I’m fucking mad as hell. I’ve already imagined four ways to kill this guy. Trust me when I say that if you weren’t in my immediate vicinity right now, everything around us would be splintered at my feet.”

Tom visibly trembled. “I love you, too,” he whispered.

“I love you more. Let’s get you to the station.”

He slipped his arm around Tom’s shoulders and then grabbed his keys off the hook by the front door.

Tom slid into the passenger seat while Chris walked around the other side. He dabbed gently at his lip as Chris drove, the latter feeling much more comfortable behind the wheel ever since his leg muscles had considerably loosened.

In an urge that overtook him, Chris clasped Tom’s hand and laced their fingers together, needing there to be a point of contact between them.

“Who is it you know at the station?”

“His name is Officer Preston. Joshua Preston. He helped me when I was there. Before. He was…very nice.”

Trying to ignore what ‘very nice’ might imply, Chris took to the freeway in a rush. Tom didn’t protest. Instead, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

When he pulled into the police station parking lot, he found a space between two cruisers. \

“Perhaps you should wait here,” Tom remarked quietly.

Fingers on the door handle, Chris hesitated. “Why?”

“Someone in there is bound to recognize you, my love.”

“Fuck if I care,” Chris responded, just as quietly. “I’m going in there with you. You’re not going through that again by yourself.” He opened the door, hiding his grimace as his leg protested the sharp angle, and opened Tom’s door for him.

Hand in hand, they walked through the front entrance of the precinct, immediately noting the calm bustle of the night shift personnel typing away at computers, speaking lowly on the phones, or otherwise attending visitors such as themselves. Most were in uniform, but there were other people dressed in street clothes that walked around with just as much authority as the other officers.

The officer behind the front desk had Tom sign in and then directed them to a bank of chairs by the far window to wait.

“If we could speak with Officer Josh Preston. He asked me to find him again for the incident I want to report.”

The man made a note on the clipboard and again gestured to the sitting area.

They sat, Chris draping his arm over Tom’s lap, fingers clutched warmly together.

Most of the officers who glanced their way gave Chris double looks, the sharp spark of recognition alighting in their eyes. A few whispered to each other and pointed their way.

Tom squirmed and kept his gaze on the floor, his foot tapping a harried beat. Perhaps he was trying to hide the growing bruise on his cheek, or his split lip, or his tears, but he never looked up once.

A young woman with a baby in her arms and a boy of about eight years stood next to the entrance, speaking to a plain clothed policewoman. Chris thought she might be a detective. The boy, whose wavy brown hair kept flopping over his eyes, was looking around the entire station, with either wonder or caution, Chris wasn’t sure. But then those big brown eyes landed on Chris, and they widened in surprise. Turning to his mother, he tugged on her shirt, whispering up at her.

She shushed him quietly and then turned back to her companion. Chris watched as the boy looked at him again and then smiled, before rushing to the front desk and asking the police officer there for something. He was passed a thick notepad and a pen, and with shy steps, the boy approached where he and Tom sat.

“You’re Chris Hemsworth, aren’t you? Offensive receiver for the Falcons?”

Chris nodded, noting that Tom’s head lifted slightly, eyes on the boy.

The grin on the child’s face widened, and he held the blank pad and pen to Chris.

“Could you sign this for me? And—and make it out to me? My name?” Dark brown brows rose high on the boy’s smooth forehead, happily expectant.

“Uh, sure, yeah,” Chris said with a smile, sitting up straight and balancing the pad on his knee. “What’s your name?”

“Tommy,” the boy said, inching closer to them. He started prattling off in that way children did when they were excited. “I used to play tackle football at my school, but we had to move and now I’m at home with my mom. But I watch all of the Falcons’ games at the gas station down the street from our apartment. There’s a small TV behind the counter and the guy there lets me sit by the register and watch with him if it’s not too busy in the store. I’m awful sorry about your leg. I know you’ll be better in no time!”

“Tommy,” Chris repeated, and then smiled. “Now that’s a great name.” He carefully wrote a dedication to the boy and then scrawled his signature at the bottom. “And thank you. I’m working every day to get back in shape for the new season.”

When he held the paper back to him, however, the boy was quietly peering at Tom, who uneasily met the scrutiny with quick blinks. “What happened?” Tommy asked, his fingers, still soft with the pudge of youth, rising to trace his own cheek.

Tom swallowed and put on what he imagine might be a brave smile. But Chris could see how much it pained him to do so. “I fell, actually. Fell right smack against a wall. It was pretty silly of me, to trip like that all by myself.”

Tommy took the pen and pad from Chris, but nodded solemnly. “That happens to my mom a lot, too.”

The boy’s mother, finishing her conversation with the other woman, turned. “Tom-Tom! Let’s go, baby.”

Tommy flashed a wide smile at Chris, tossing a fast “Thanks, Mr. Hemsworth!” before spinning on his heel and disappearing after his mother out the door, paper pad and all.

Chris turned his gaze to Tom, who sat looking stunned after the boy’s final words to them. Placing a hand over his eyes, he slunk down in his seat and shook with quiet tears.

“It’s alright, baby,” Chris murmured, nudging Tom’s shoulder with his forehead, not caring who saw.

“Tom Hiddleston?”

Both tensed and looked up at the voice.

A police officer stood by the front desks, a manila folder in hand.

Tall, slim, brown-haired and blue-eyed, Chris saw that the man was handsome. And young. He gripped Tom’s hand a little tighter.

“Officer Preston,” Tom said, voice thick with tears. He stood, pulling Chris up with him.

They all shook hands, Chris eyeing the policeman as he touched Tom on his shoulder, asking if he was okay.

“Yes, I’m quite alright. But I do have to file a report on Matt.”

Eyes flicking over Tom’s face, no doubt cataloguing the injuries there, Officer Preston nodded after a moment. Smiling tightly at Chris, he gestured for them to follow him.

Heads swiveled in their direction as they made their way to a back cubicle.

“Just sit tight a moment,” the young officer said. “I need to grab the right forms. Be right back.”

He dashed across the station and into a small room out of sight.

Chris watched him go. Tom, beside him, sat massaging his temples, as if trying to ease away a headache. Casting a glance around, he noticed a few people duck their heads back behind the walls of their cubicles, no doubt trying to figure out why the injured offensive receiver for the Falcons was at the police station that night. He tossed a well-aimed scowl and scooted his chair closer to Tom.

“Okay,” Officer Preston said when he returned. He took a seat at his desk. “Let me just get some preliminary information from you.” Writing in the blank spaces, he confirmed Tom’s full name, address, contact information, and place of employment.

“Tell me what happened,” Preston said quietly, turning concerned eyes to Tom.

Taking a deep breath, Tom explained about going to his house after work to feed his fish and pack some more clothes before he returned to Chris’s house. He explained about Matt appearing at his door, the scuffle, the way he'd attacked Tom, and how Tom had escaped from him.

“Well, this changes everything. Rather than being a simple violation of the restraining order, this could result in a misdemeanor, or even a felony for your ex, if the judge felt so inclined to sentence him that severely. I, personally, think any judge would, as it matches the nature of the abuse from when you first took out the order of protection. Do you have any idea why Mr. Matthew…” Preston hesitated, looking down at his sheet. “Why Matthew Abney was at your home this evening?”

Tom shrugged. “Probably angry that I changed my number this morning. I’d been receiving non-stop text messages and phone calls from him, all of which I’ve saved. They are crude, extremely lewd and threatening messages, both toward myself and to my partner,” he said, glancing at Chris.

Preston’s eyes snapped to Chris, looking him up and down quickly before returning to his notes.

“And you’re sure that Matthew was the one who did this to you?”

Chris felt Tom stiffen beside him, eyes narrowed on the police officer before looking at Chris, and then back again.

“Josh…” he whispered, disbelief heavy in his voice.

Officer Preston held his hand up and shook his head quickly. “I’m sorry, Tom. I’m just covering all the bases here.”

“Yes,” Tom said quickly, teeth clenched. “I’m sure that it was Matthew who did this to me. I was on the phone with Christopher when it happened, miles away in his own home. He heard _everything_.”

A heavy tension fell over the small cubicle, made all the more pronounced by the continued bustle in the rest of the station.

Preston nodded tersely after a moment and bent over the paperwork once more. He completed the report with a few more questions and then rose. “We’ll need to take shots of the injuries to include in his file. Do you mind coming with me, Tom?”

Tom nodded and then turned to give Chris a reassuring hand squeeze, but Chris knew, by his puffy eyes and strained smile, that he was tired and ready for this to be over. Tom and Preston walked to a side wall, where Tom stood and waited while Preston borrowed a camera from a colleague of his. Staring straight at the lens, Tom winced slightly when Preston snapped three shots in quick succession, their bright flashes no doubt blinding him.

Leaning forward in his chair, Chris watched them. Watched how Preston slowly lowered the camera and then took two steps closer to Tom, touching him gently on his arm, bending his head low to whisper something softly to him. Tom nodded quietly to whatever the man was saying, but a spark of jealousy curled in Chris’s gut as Preston’s fingers tightened on Tom’s arm and then slowly slid down the length of it, lingering by his wrist.

Tom nodded again stiffly and murmured some words back to him.

As they spoke quietly, Chris’s eyes glanced over the desk and spotted the open file of Matthew’s restraining order. Checking that no one was looking his way, Chris peeked at the information on the page. A small polaroid was paper clipped to the corner of the file. In it, a low-browed young man stared angrily at the camera. He had short brown hair, but his eyes were a vivid blue, iced and defiant. Strong jaw and wide shoulders were held slightly forward, as if ready to protect himself against whatever might be coming. Matthew Abney, Chris read. Thirty-four years old, six feet two inches, two hundred pounds. Chris frowned. He outweighed Tom by a good two stone. What had he done with that kind of advantage? What kind of pain had he been able to cause simply by being bigger than Tom? Stronger? A sudden image of Tom being thrown against a wall assaulted his mind, rough hands clamping down on his arms to hold him in place. Chris closed his eyes tight to rid himself of it. Gritting his teeth, he looked over the other information quickly, noting that Matthew’s last known place of employment was a grocery store in mid-town. Just below that was a home address.

Sliding the folder away quickly, he turned back to Tom, who was crossing his arms, effectively removing Preston’s point of contact. Another few words were spoken and then Tom stepped around the officer and walked back to where Chris sat, blinking down at his lap. Preston watched him go before meeting Chris’s silent glare. He turned quickly into a separate cubicle, connecting the camera to a computer and fiddling with the keyboard.

Chris couldn’t help himself. He remembered what Tom had said about refusing the advancements of other men in fear of his ex and what he might do.

“Is he one of the men that you rebuked because of your ex?” Chris asked quietly, the lingering looks the officer gave Tom, the soft way he spoke to him, still fresh in his mind. Chris couldn’t help but also notice the sharper, slightly more accusing way Preston, in turn, looked at Chris.

Tom nodded, a bit wearily. “Yes,” he whispered.

Picking at a cuticle, Chris asked, “How much safer could you have been with someone, anyone else? I mean—.”

Tom turned to him abruptly, anger flashing in his eyes. “Are you seriously questioning why I’m not with another man right now? Or wasn’t with another man when we met? Is that what you would have preferred?”

Chris sat forward, his own fresh anger and sense of helplessness making his voice a harsh whisper. “I would have preferred you safe and unharmed. And mine. Above all others. Mine. Finding you and loving you have made me the happiest I’ve ever been, Tom. You have to know that.”

Tom’s face, stricken and a bit devastated, was tear-lined and red-cheeked. His eyes were frozen on Chris, and they stared at each other, both waiting, hearing the other breathe. And then Tom cast his eyes down at his loosely clasped hands, before raising them to stare off across the room, his mouth set in a hard line, blinking quickly to prevent more tears from falling.

The officer was beginning to make his way toward them and they both sat back in their seats at his approach. But quite suddenly, Tom reached across the two chairs and grasped Chris’s hand, still turned resolutely away, jaw clenched in what seemed not so much anger, but frustration and a bone-deep exhaustion.

With a more noticeable reserve, Officer Preston outlined how they would proceed. Matthew Abney would be called in to be questioned by the police. If, within forty-eight hours, he still hadn’t appeared, a warrant for his arrest would be issued.

“I’ll keep you updated on how this progresses. You said you changed your number?” Preston made a great show of ruffling through the pages in the report, but Chris had the biting suspicion he was just eager to have Tom’s new contact information.

After everything was squared away, Tom thanked Josh Preston quietly, both promising to stay in touch.

Chris took Tom’s hand and they started out of the station. He looked back at the last second to see Preston watching them go. Giving him a quick nod, Chris slung his arm over Tom’s shoulders and led him to the car.

As late as the hour was, Tom took the opportunity to call his boss and fill him in on the situation. From what Chris could hear, it seemed the boss had been aware of Matt and the restraining order since the beginning. Overhearing him tell Tom he could take the next few days off to gather himself and let the bruises on his face heal before returning to work, Chris was relieved when Tom accepted with a quiet ‘okay’ before thanking the man and hanging up.

**

They stood under the warm spray of water, Chris bracketing Tom’s face with his hands, studying him.

It all made sense now. The panic at the mysterious text messages, the look of fleeting fright the first time Chris had bent him over the kitchen counter, his scars.

Even now, he could see them, those faint white lines crossing just beneath his lower lip, cutting diagonally over his upper lip. The small indent on his forehead, what appeared to be from some kind of blunt object. And the one on his hand, the sickle-shaped mark that gleamed a soft pearl in certain lighting.

These were the remnants of a violent abuser. Only the physical, Chris reminded himself, placing a wide palm over Tom’s chest, where inside beat his heart, a heart that no doubt bore more scars than it deserved.

Tom’s lips were clear of blood now, with only a small cut clotting over. His cheek was a deeper purple than before, but luckily, the swelling wasn’t bad. Chris had applied the ointment to his injuries as soon as they’d arrived back home, and when Tom asked quietly to shower, they stripped and stepped into the stall together.

Afterward, it was immediately to bed, in that wide soft mattress that Chris had been missing for weeks now in his temporary occupation of the guest bedroom. But now, they were back in his and Tom’s room again, and they fell into the bed with tired huffs.

“Are you hungry, babe?” Chris asked, remembering Tom had said he was starving. “You didn’t eat lunch. You haven’t eaten anything.” Suddenly, his desire to make sure Tom was fed and comfortable was greatly heightened, bone deep on a primitive level Chris had trouble recognizing.

Tom, smoothing his hands over the blankets, sat quietly for a moment. “I feel I should eat. Like, maybe if I think about it enough, I’ll be hungry. But I don’t want to.”

“Something small, maybe?” Chris said, wrapping Tom under his arm. “A sandwich? Or some soup? I can make it for you, babe.”

“No, darling. I’m alright. I just want to sleep.”

He slid down to lie flat against the bed, his head pillowed on Chris’s arm. He shifted and wrapped himself around Chris, sighing quietly.

“Thank you for being with me tonight,” he whispered. “I’m sorry for what Josh said. What he insinuated. I imagine he was only doing his job.”

 _Josh_ , Chris thought with a scowl. “He has the hots for you,” he said instead. “And he thinks I abuse you.”

“It doesn’t matter what he thinks,” Tom said, a bit angrily. “It’s my word that matters. My accusation against Matt. The truth.” He gripped Chris tighter about the waist, rubbing his cheek on the groove of his shoulder. “I love you, Chris. I would never allow someone to think so ill of you. Not when such a depraved state is not in your nature.”

Chris considered this, unsure. Quietly, he said, “But violence is in my nat—.”

Tom sat up quickly, eyes shining at him in the dark. “Controlled violence, Chris. Purposeful violence, systemized and concise, for the sake of a team effort. To win games. For organized sports. You are not violent like he is violent. It is not a part of the way you think, what propels you to act or—.” He raised a finger when Chris made a move interrupt. “No. Stop. Don’t even say it. Your anger is not the same. You might believe it to be an inherent part of your psyche, Chris, something that you’ve held on to for so long that it feels like you aren’t yourself without it, but it is not part of your heart. I know it isn’t. I see it in the way you look at me. The way you hold me, the words you whisper, how you love me.” His voice was thicker, hoarse, and Chris knew with a shudder that Tom was crying. “I will never hold you in the same regard as him. Okay? Why are you so inclined to believe so badly of yourself? Why are you trying to compare? You aren’t a terrible person. You aren’t blemished or—or broken or damaged. You are perfect and I love you. Do you hear me? I love you and I would appreciate it if you didn’t insult me again by insinuating that I would ever dare to love another abuser.”

His head dropped down and he cried softly into his hands. "Oh, god, I'm sorry, Chris! I'm not myself."

Chris rose quickly, wrapping him close.

“No, babe. No, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. I didn’t mean it to come out that way. I didn’t mean to insult you. I know you’re smarter than that. I know you’ve learned from your experience. I was just saying that even without his depraved nature, violence is part of who I am and—.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, I can’t bloody take it,” Tom said, moving to the side and scrambling off the bed.

“No!” Chris hurried after him, grabbing his elbow before he could slide away. “I’ll shut up. I’ll shut up. I’ll stop talking. Please just forget—.”

“I don’t want you silenced, Christopher. I just want you to see yourself the way I see you.” His voice quieted, a low tremble in its depth. “Can’t you see…how I see you?”

The room, as dark as it was, was still light enough for Chris to be able to catch Tom’s eyes reflect back at him, the smooth outline of his cheek, the soft curls on his head tufted from the pillow.

Chris swallowed and blinked fast, Tom’s words resounding in his head. “I think I’m starting to,” he whispered.

As Tom let out a quiet sob and reached for him, Chris leaned forward and brought him against his chest.

They swayed together on the edge of the bed, tears gathering dangerously beneath Chris’s lashes, Tom’s own soaking into the crook of his neck. Outside, a sweeping wind had started a low howl, buffering noisily against the side of the house, and Chris wondered briefly if the fairy lights, whether real or not, if he wished hard enough, might still be seen out over the trees so late in the night.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone. Okay, so we finally get some back story on Tom's relationship with Matt. He doesn't go into overly explicit detail, but he does explain some of the things that happened and what went wrong, and ultimately what led to the restraining order. Just a warning for descriptions of physical and emotional abuse.
> 
> Also smut. There's some smut in here because Chris and Tom like to do the do. And it's emotionally cathartic to do the do with someone you love and that's what happens here, with some tears.
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely duskyhuedladysatan <3

Whispering their love for each other, they clung all the harder, lips desperate and wandering, gasps and apologies mixed together. Tugging, they fell back on the bed, Chris using his weight like a security blanket over Tom, who seemed to appreciate the gesture, moaning and curling his fingers into the meat of Chris’s waist.

He wasn’t exactly sure why he asked it, but he felt he needed to; that after all that Tom had been through, he should be asked permission, especially so soon after.

“Can I touch you?”

Shining eyes in the dark, Tom released a shaky exhale. “Yes, my dearest love. You don’t have to ask. Ever, Chris. Not you.”

Relief burst over his vision, and Chris sagged heavier on him. “Anywhere?”

“Anywhere.”

“Hold still.” He kissed him once more on the lips and then moved further down Tom’s body, kissing his chest, each nipple, smiling at the gasps Tom gave, dipping his tongue into the hollow of his tiny belly button. Hooking his arms behind the backs of Tom’s thighs, he lifted his legs in the air and stared.

Tom, squirming under his scrutiny, gasped and rose on his elbows to watch Chris’s head descend on his core. “Darling—.”

“Hush now.” Voice muffled against the slim muscle of Tom’s inner thigh, Chris mouthed at the pale skin there, the soft down of golden hairs gliding on his face, tickling his lips. Meeting his eyes, Chris whispered, “Do you trust me?”

Arching his neck to look at him, Tom swallowed loudly, and then nodded. “Yes, darling. I do. I trust you.” The bruise on his cheek appeared black in the dim lighting, but Chris forced himself to look at it, and to never forget.

Smiling, he lay a soft kiss on Tom’s knee in gratitude before grazing further down, to Tom’s center, to the heavy weight of his sac, the plump curve of his cock hardening against the hollow of his abdomen. Casting his eyes up, Chris breathed over the hardening length and smiled. “You’re so beautiful.” And then he dipped his head yet again, burying his face against Tom’s most secret heat.

A broken sound like a sob escaped Tom’s lips and Chris felt him fall back against the bed. Anchoring his hands around Tom’s hips, Chris kept him still as his tongue flicked out to taste the clean musk of Tom’s entrance, sealing his mouth over it, feeling the tremor in Tom’s limbs.

“God, Chris,” Tom whimpered, breath hitched, hands fisting in the sheets.

Chris moaned, nose buried in the giving flesh of Tom’s testicles, his tongue lapping at the seam along his perineum and down again, pushing against the smooth, pink skin of his hole, testing its resistance.

Tom was arching, hips rolling, mumbling a steady stream of fevered curses and Chris’s name. He held his legs dutifully open, even if the slim muscles quivered and ached to close, to anchor Chris there, to hold him steady, the pulse of his tongue never to disappear.

“Fuck, fuck, my darling, god—please. I don’t—.”

Chris pushed harder, the heady scent and slick of saliva and musk and soap making his cock harder by the second. Digging his nails into Tom’s hips, he moaned again and buried his face deeper, the tip of his tongue working Tom open until with a final insistent nudge, he breached and Tom gasped, body held tight and still.

Something akin to fire and light rushing through his veins, Chris kept his eyes on Tom above him and continued to mouth at his flesh, spread him open, taste him anew, and he knew without a doubt that he never wanted to leave this place, this place where to love Tom was to worship him and bring him to pieces, like stars at his feet.

Tom’s trembling increased, his whimpers grew louder, and he was no longer clutching at the sheets but at Chris’s head, fingers tangling in his hair.

A strangled cry. “ _Chris_ —.”

Easing a hand over the center of Tom’s chest, Chris pressed and Tom let himself be held down, hands wrapping around his wrist, warm and tight, tugging.

It wasn’t until Chris noticed the absence of fingers gripping him that he looked up. Lying back flat, Tom shivered soundlessly, hands covering the length of his face. He was crying. Desperate not to leave the sacred heat of that crease, Chris lifted in a hurry. It had to be his new favorite thing, the warmth of it, the flavor and all the tremors Tom gave, he wanted to curl up in that feeling and live there.

Leaving him dripping, Chris trailed moist kisses along his thighs, curving over to this clenched knees, his hands cupping the cool and tender bottom of Tom’s feet.

“Baby,” he whispered, crooning the word as he draped himself over Tom. He wiped his mouth quickly. Still covered by his hands, Tom’s face was hidden from him. Tugging gently, he pried one hand away, and was surprised to see fresh tears leaking from Tom’s eyes. “Babe, no. What is it? Are you hurt? Did I hurt you?”

“God, no,” Tom sobbed. “I just…I was overwhelmed, is all.”

Frowning, Chris hesitated, and it was enough for Tom’s reserve to crack open. More tears spilled as he opened his arms to Chris, begging him. “Come here, come here, darling, come.” It was a different kind of urgency, one full of want and desperation. Tom grabbed his face and crashed their lips together. He moaned loudly when their tongues danced, writhing and weaving a language only they only understood. The salt of his tears crept into their hurried caresses, Tom’s cheeks still moist with them.

“That—,” Tom started, kissing him fast over and over. “That was—mmm. Darling, that was…amazing.”

Chris, kissing him just as hard, drew back, surprised. “Had you never…?”

“No, I have. I have. It’s just that…it’s never been that…gentle. That sweet.”

Chris growled low in his throat, already wondering what kind of cruel treatment Tom had been subjected to, the pain, the mute and isolating surprise of—.

“No, don’t,” Tom pleaded, hands bracketing Chris’s face. “Don’t think about it. I know you are. Stay here with me. Take me, please. I want you inside.”

Not needing any further encouragement, Chris climbed atop his boyfriend, the sweetest and most beautiful man Chris could ever have hoped for, and aligned their bodies together. Sliding in slowly, they moaned together, Tom whining once Chris was fully seated.

Rocking into him, Chris gathered Tom up and held him against his chest, their lips flush and tongues lingering.

“I love you. I love you,” Tom was whispering, carding his hands through Chris’s hair, his small gasps and continuous tears making Chris’s heart bloom in a way that had never happened before. He would protect this man; he would love him and keep him safe. He would never hurt or be sad or afraid. Chris would strive to prove himself in ways he never felt he needed to before.

“And I love you,” he said softly, teeth gritted to control the tears that threatened, rolling his hips a little harder, squeezing Tom, catching his breath in his own mouth.

They moved together, Tom meeting him thrust for thrust, his tiny sobs turning into wet giggles when Chris buried his face in his neck and started tickling him.

“My god, you delight me,” Tom breathed, staring up at him in wonder. Chris kissed him, wanting Tom to remember forever how happy they were in that moment.

Drifting his hand between their bodies, Chris was about to start palming Tom’s cock when Tom stopped him.

“Don’t. I want to come from you only. From you inside. Can I, love?”

Propping himself up on his hands, Chris got his good knee under him, leaning most of his weight on it. Taking Tom by the hips, Chris pulled him on his lap, and started pounding into him, searching for his prostate. “You,” he gritted out. “Can have anything you want, whenever you want. All you have to do is—.” He grimaced as Tom cried out, head tossed back. “—ask. It’s yours.”

Focusing on that spot, Chris lifted Tom up with every snap of his hips, drinking in the sight of Tom beneath him, the arched back, the parted lips, the eyes slowly rolling behind long lashes.

And when he clenched, Chris was ready for it, sinking in to the hilt just as Tom pulsed around him. His cock, which has been jumping against the flat plane of his belly, spurted a heavy cream, ribboning onto his chest and neck.

Tom was completely silent, body tight as a wire, but his red face and trembling hands fisted in the sheets betrayed the strength of the emotions coursing just beneath his skin.

Biting his lip, Chris thrust in again, delighted to see more come fly out of Tom’s still throbbing cock with his movement.

“Fuck,” Tom inhaled, chest shaking. “You…you must have been made…just for me.” He smiled lazily up at Chris, languid and loose now that his orgasm had subsided.

Something tore free in Chris’s chest and he fell forward, needing to be as close to Tom as possible. Reading his mind, Tom embraced him and planted tiny kisses over his face, widening his legs for Chris, who pumped steady and hard between them.

At his release, Tom’s hands tightened on his head, murmuring sweetly in his ear, Chris’s grunts lost in the curve of his neck.

“Yes, fill me,” Tom murmured, swiveling his hips as Chris emptied himself deep. “Fill me. I want to always be full of all that you are.”

Tears shedding despite his efforts, Chris wept openly, their lips finding each other, sealing in their sighs, tokens that perhaps things would end up just fine.

**

Out on the veranda the next evening, Chris lay stretched on a cushioned pool chair, Tom lying just beside him. The dinner dishes were washed and the house quiet and cool. A glass of wine sat warming on the spotted tile, drawing the attention of a determined dragonfly fluttering nearby.

“He was kind to me, in the beginning.”

Chris blinked, roused from his doze. Tom was drawing a lazy curlicue on his shirt, head tucked warmly against his neck.

For some stupid reason, Chris thought Tom might be referring the police officer. “Preston?”

Tom chuckled, squeezing him affectionately around the waist. “No. Matt.”

“Oh.” 

“If you don’t want to hear—.”

“I do.”

A sigh. “Alright. Well,” he cleared his throat, and began. “I had been in the states for about six months when we met. I was barely settled in. Back then, I was living in an apartment off Fourth Avenue. This tiny place. Just my bed and a couple of dishes. I didn’t even have Felix then. He was something I brought home after the restraining order. Um, anyway. I was just settled in. Applying everywhere you can think of. I was just about ready to stand on a street corner and see what would happen—.” He laughed, and Chris glanced down to see the blush rising over his cheekbones. “I’m just kidding. Sorry. Bad joke. Anyway, I had studied for physical therapy back in England, but the fundamentals of that field of study are vastly different from the ones practiced here in America, so I attended night school to brush up on what I was missing from my curriculum. It was when I was hired on to work at a hardware store that I met him. It was just a nine to five job, to pay my bills. And I volunteered with a therapy clinic downtown for experience, too. So I was swamped all the time. I barely had time to sleep. Or eat, even. I lost weight that summer, from how busy I was.

He walked into the store one day asking about timber. Said he wanted to build a bench table for his backyard. I was in charge of tools, but he found me on a ladder, angling a box of something heavy back onto a shelf.”

Chris had the sudden image of Tom on that ladder, long legs held tight for balance, maybe wearing an apron required of all employees, reaching to put away that heavy box of tools. Fluorescent lights would have cast his curls in white, illuminating the exertion on his face, reddening his cheeks. He must have looked so beautiful, Chris thought. The caring smile on his face, welcoming and bright. ‘How can I help you?’ he’d probably said, no way of knowing the world of misery waiting for him.

“Our first date was two months later. He kept coming in the store, getting bits here and there for his bench project. Always sought me out. After the first few visits, he started dropping hints that he’d like to see me sometime outside of work. Maybe he could show me that bench of his. I kept turning him down. I was too busy. School at night, work during the day, my volunteer hours at the clinic every weekend. I was always so tired, darling. But after two months of that, I was ready for a break. I requested off a Friday and Monday and skipped my volunteer hours for a nice four-day weekend. I slept like the dead. Closed curtains, pure darkness, my tiny apartment was like a tomb. I finally woke up and went grocery shopping Sunday morning. And guess who I run into?”

“Him,” Chris replied quietly, so far into Tom’s narrative, he’d barely blinked in five minutes. Off to the side, the dragonfly was perched on the rim of the wine glass, wings vibrating.

“Yes,” Tom said softly, slipping his foot between Chris’s ankles. “He worked at that supermarket and spotted me as I was checking out. We exchanged numbers and started texting. He’s not much of a phone call kind of person. But anyway, we had dinner the next night. And it just took off from there. He was funny and kind and considerate. He left great tips on our dates, never let me pay for anything, asked me lots of questions about myself. Showed that he was really interested, you know? He really listened. It was the kind of treatment my mother always told me a nice young gentleman should give me. It wasn’t until we started becoming more…physical, that the first red flags went up.”

Chris’s jaw tightened, preparing himself for whatever Tom said next.

“It began so normally. Making out, oral sex, _sex_. When he started asking me what kinds of things I was into, well, it certainly got more interesting. I thought, okay maybe we can start exploring new things. He wasn’t the first man I’d slept with. There was a lad in England I’d fooled around with. John was his name. I lost my virginity to him. Regardless, Matt was different. The sex was fine. But his enthusiasm to try more was endearing. And I agreed. He quickly found out how much I like to be spanked. Or have my hair pulled. A hand around my throat. Or how I always stared after men who had obviously just been working out.”

_The sweat_ , Chris thought.

“It got to the point where he starting pulling my hair too hard. Spanking me too hard. Choking me too hard. Left me with bruises and scratch marks and bite marks that were difficult to hide. Laughing at my kinks during the act, when he held so much of the power. When I felt so helpless to defend myself. I mean, wasn’t this something we both wanted? Didn’t it excite him, too?” Tom broke off, wiping at his tears quietly. Chris pressed his lips to Tom’s forehead. “It was confusing. He didn’t like me making any noise in bed. No talking. Sometimes not even if I…if I moaned or cried out. He would push my face into the mattress or the floor or wherever we were. I was…like I said, I was confused. With that and—and how helpless I felt with his increasing aggression, I tried to talk to him about it, but he would always brush it off. Say it was heat of the moment. His jealousy started making frequent appearances. He would accuse me of flirting with customers. Of supposedly having affairs while I was at the clinic volunteering. I scoffed at him. I remember asking him how the bloody hell he expected me to be leading these risqué affairs when I barely had time to spend with him? That was the first time he threw something at me. A small, crystal bowl we used to toss our keys into. Came sailing right across the room. I ducked it, and it crashed behind me. I remember my shock. Like my heart stopped in my chest. But then he was there, in my face, the very next second. And I was so startled, I slipped in my effort to back away. I fell back against the wall, but he used his leverage and grabbed me by the shoulders, flipped me. Pressed my face to the broken glass on the floor. That’s how I got this,” he said, touching the grooved indent on his forehead. He touched the top of his lip next. “And this. I pleaded with him to stop. Still, he ground my head into the floor, screaming at me, and I still can’t really recall what he said. He was so angry. The pieces of glass cut me quickly, as you can imagine. A tiny flash of fire in my head. And above my lip. It hurt so badly. The pain was so sharp. I started bleeding everywhere. It scared him, I think. He backed off, eyes wide with shock or regret or whatever. I shut myself in the bathroom. I was shaking. I couldn’t breathe. Blood was dripping down my face, staining my work shirt. But I cleaned myself up and bandaged the cuts with the box of first aid items and ointments under the sink. The cuts really weren’t that big. But I bled everywhere. The scars still surprise me sometimes, looking in the mirror in the mornings, or catching my reflection in a building window. I wonder how else I might have gotten them instead. Maybe a bad rugby crash when I was still in university. Maybe something as silly and accidental as bending at the wrong moment as someone opened a door.”

Tom sighed, and shifted a bit. The evening sky had darkened considerably, the lights along the pathway to the pool twinkling on, soft glowing orbs in the grass.

“I got this one,” he said, indicating the sickle shaped scar on his left hand. “One night he was…spanking me. He was using his hand for a while, and I was so uncomfortable. It wasn’t even pleasurable anymore, but I knew how he got if I suggested changing it up, so I hoped he would tire. Thing is, instead of stopping once his hand started to hurt, he brought out his belt.”

“No,” Chris whispered, trying to see Tom in the dark.

“I was looking away, obviously. I didn’t know what he was going to do. I never expected it. When he paused, I thought that it was over, finally. And then I heard the whistle in the air. The pain was so much worse, but what surprised me the most was the cold snap of it. ‘What is that?’ I’d asked, panicking. ‘Matt, what is that?’ Trying to look over my shoulder, I was horrified to see the square blunt glint of his belt buckle. He was hitting me with it. I startle scrambling away, voice rising in fear. But he grabbed me, his hand big and like steel on the back of my neck. He held me down, and my skin was already so sensitive, but still… _numb_ almost. Yet, I knew, I couldn’t let him hit me with that! I would start to bleed, he would cut me, the damage…I started waving my hands behind me, trying to protect myself. The buckle cut my hand, right at a vein. It was worse than the cuts on my face. Blood gushing everywhere.” He cleared his throat. “We didn’t speak for weeks. I had a bruise on my hand for almost as long. The scar was something he always stared at when he thought I didn’t notice.”

Tom sat up abruptly, and Chris felt the immediate chill where his body had been lying against him. Planting his feet on the floor, Tom looked down. He picked up his wineglass and stared into it. Sighing, his shoulders sagged a bit and he continued. “The next scars couldn’t be explained away by either accident or misinterpreted force. Because they weren’t physical. You couldn’t see them. They were inside me. He…hit me. With his fist. Not once, but three times. Once on my brow, just here,” he said, touching his left eyebrow. “It healed nicely, can’t even notice it. And twice on the mouth. Those didn’t heal as nicely.”

Chris sat up too. Tom turned to him with a tight smile, the kind of smile a person gave when they knew they were being scrutinized. Lifting a hand slowly, Chris touched the two scars on Tom’s mouth, one on his upper lip, the other on his lower lip. They were faint lines now, but still deep enough to be noticed, deep enough to not be forgotten.

“It sort of reopened the previous cut from the glass. His knuckle caught my mouth at a weird angle. I cut my bottom lip with my own teeth.” He shook his head, eyes down. “He made them terrible, Chris. He made them shameful, the things I liked or what got me excited. It was a sad sort of ignominy, I suppose. One I had no idea how to rid myself of. You don’t do that to a partner. You don’t humiliate them, shame them. You make them feel safe, and loved, and protected. All the things I feel with you, my giant.” Pausing for a moment, he breathed evenly, but Chris saw him wipe at his face again. “I had no one to call. I didn’t want to alarm my family half a world away. And then I turned to my work. I had just started with my job at the physical therapy clinic, and that was one of the hardest phone calls I ever had to make. Norman, my boss, he drove down to my place that same day. Helped clean me up. Told me I could take some time if I needed it. He was the one who suggested the restraining order. It honestly never occurred to me, Chris. That there might be something that would force him to stay away. I took it out that very day. He was with me, Norman.”

“I thought you’d gone alone,” Chris admitted, the sour mix of anger and hatred brewing a familiar storm in his stomach at the things Tom had revealed tonight.

“No, Norman didn’t let me out of his sight until the restraining order was complete. He was even in the room with me when I called Matt to end it all. He helped me look for a new place to live. Helped me move. Gave me some furniture he and his wife no longer needed.”

Chris had never met Norman, but was pretty sure he’d spotted him at the clinic a couple of times. “Older guy? Grey hair?”

Tom smiled. “Yes. I think…” He hesitated, trying to gather his thoughts. “I think he was expecting me to want to go back to Matt. Isn’t that usually the cycle? Return to the abuser? And I’m not going to deny it, Chris, that I thought about it. I…missed the idea of him. It was colder in bed. There were more echoes in the house. I filled it with as much background noise and artificial voices as I could. I mean since then, I’ve gotten used to being alone, sleeping alone. But I know that Norman was worried about that. But I couldn’t, darling. I kept reminding myself that fear of a thing doesn’t make it my master. I kept reminding myself of my mother and what she would want for me. Neither did Norman. He’s been very kind to me. There is such kindness in this world, Chris. How I ended up with the opposite of it, is beyond me.

“But you didn’t end up with it,” Chris said softly. “You suffered through it. And now it’s us. You and me.”

“Us,” Tom said quietly. “I like that so much.” He shrugged. “It’s been a rather trying few years. I love my job. They know of my history with Matt. That’s always been a comfort to me. I didn’t feel so…alone with my burden. I remember just after the break up, settled in to my new place, I couldn’t sleep for days. I got up every couple of hours to check all the doors and windows. I kept expecting him to barge in, angry and violent. I kept the radio on. I needed noise. Because if it was completely silent, if there wasn’t a logical explanation for the noises, I would hear other things. Bumps and footsteps and whispers. It was all in my head, my fear manifesting itself or whatever. I would huddle under the sheets, too afraid to peek out. What if it was him? What if it was something else? The fear kept me awake. The fear of what I couldn’t see but what could very well be there. It’s why I don’t like horror movies, or hotel rooms, or staying in new places. It makes me uneasy. Puts me on edge. I get no rest when I’m alone.”

Chris wrapped his arm around Tom’s waist.

“But he’s tried to get in contact with me a few times. Found out where I live now. Always learns my new numbers. I don’t know. It was so side-lined. It was never by a threat from him that I avoided men or dating or relationships. I just knew he wouldn’t like it and didn’t want to take the chance to find out what he would do. Until you. I simply couldn’t resist you, Christopher.”

Chris hugged him and breathed in the scent of his temple. “I tried to resist you.”

Tom laughed. “I know you did.”

They quieted, holding each other.

“Thank you for telling me,” Chris whispered after a moment. “And he won’t hurt you again. Not ever. I won’t let him.”

Tom nodded, eyes wet again. “Thank you, my love.”

Kissing on the lips once, they stood and started making their way indoors. “Poor little one,” Tom murmured, and Chris looked down at his hands. The wine glass was nearly full, but the dragonfly, with its iridescent blue-green wings like spiraled glass, floated on its surface, spinning in lazy circles, drowned.

With a sad note of disappointment, Tom moved to the bright green fresh sapling in Judy’s garden and poured the wine into the black soil, the body of the dragonfly coming to rest on the moist dirt, wings spread wide.

Walking into the house, they closed and locked the door behind them.

**

Tom took the rest of the week off. Considering it was only Thursday and Friday, Tom didn’t feel too bad about it. “Might as well use up some of that vacation time I’ve been saving.” He shrugged, as if he believed he never would be able to use them for what they were meant, an actual vacation.

They lazed away their extended weekend. Every morning and night, Chris applied the ointment to Tom’s cheek and split lip, noting the puffiness was decreasing steadily. The bruise under his eye was still dark, but Chris could already tell it would be reduced to a small tight cut, about half an inch in length. The one on his lip would scab and peel over the next week or so, but hopefully with their copious use of the skin ointment, there would be no scar.

“I was thinking,” Chris started, one morning after breakfast. Tom looked up from the newspaper. Chris cleared his throat. “Well, I was thinking. Norman, your boss, it sounds like you two are pretty close.”

Tom nodded, a question in his eyes.

“Do you really think he would fire you for being with me?”

Tom blinked and considered. “I don’t think he would fire me,” he said slowly. “But I would feel it my responsibility to resign. It wouldn’t be fair for him to give me special treatment just because he and I are friends outside of work.”

Chris figured that. “No, you’re right.”

“I told him I was seeing someone. He just doesn’t know who. I can tell he’s getting a little antsy about it. I think he just wants to make sure it’s not Matt.”

“He can’t think you would go back with him?”

Tom shrugged, folding the paper. “Happens all the time. It’s sad to say, but people return to their abusers all the time. He’s just concerned. I’ll have to tell him soon.”

A sudden thought struck Chris in that moment. “Well, what if you didn’t have to resign? And still be with me?”

Tom’s brows drew together. “What do you mean?”

Sitting forward, Chris took Tom’s hands. “What if I wasn’t your patient anymore?”

“You mean, leave the clinic?”

“Yeah, think about it, babe. You’re providing sessions for me here at home anyway. You stay here with me most nights.”

Tom saw where he was going, and his eyes lit with understanding. “I could just continue with your therapy outside of the clinic’s work hours. With you removed as a patient, I don’t see why I would have to leave their employ.”

They smiled at each other, giddy.

“Do you think he’ll go for it?”

“I don’t see why not. I’ll talk to him about it when I see him Monday. He’ll want to talk about…what happened anyway.”

Chris nodded. “And I’ll get it cleared with my coaching staff. It’s going to be okay, love. I know it is.”

Tom smiled and cupped his cheek. “You are happier. I can see it in your eyes.”

It wasn’t a question. And Chris found himself leaning into his touch, smiling.

“I am.”

Tom grinned, a lovely blush rising in his cheeks. “Good. That makes me happy, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still working on Stray Not From Me :)


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops! Took me a tad longer than expected to update this, but here it is now! Enjoy :)
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely duskyhuedladysatan <3

When they slept for the first couple of nights after the incident, it was fitfully. Any move Tom made had Chris waking and wrapping him tighter in his arms. Tom slept on, content to let Chris swaddle him. But his brows furrowed as he dreamt and he murmured low, sometimes soft distressed sounds, other times a whisper that sounded a lot like Chris’s name. His bruised cheek and split lip were all Chris could stare at in the semi-dark, wishing desperately he could make them vanish with just a swipe of his fingers.

Chris woke up nearly every morning of that long weekend to find Tom gone from their bed. At first he panicked, wondering where he’d gone. By simple chance, he’d looked out the window and spotted him in the pool, a long sliver of pale flesh in the blue expanse of water. Now, when he woke and Tom wasn’t next to him, he would go to the window first rather than stumble down the stairs, calling his name.

He didn’t know the last time a lover’s absence from his side would have caused him such fear, such worry about his safety.

Love, it seemed, had changed everything.

Tom’s favorite place was the pool. Floating on its surface seemed to calm him. Eyes closed to the sun, he would be completely motionless, letting whatever passing breeze steer his aimless course.

Chris started leaving a bottle of sunblock on the bathroom counter, afraid so many hours in the sun would burn Tom’s skin.

And when he would sink into the water’s depths to join his boyfriend, he was pleased to smell the chemical tang of the sunblock on his skin, grateful that he’d put some on.

When Tom finally returned to work the next week, his bruise had shrunk considerably, even if it was obvious that something had caused what remained of it. He planned on avoiding small talk with his coworkers, something that Chris knew would pain him, as Tom was so friendly and outgoing.

Chris, even with all his reluctance to see Tom leave, was glad for the time alone. He had been thinking of something ever since their night at the police station. Something that he felt he needed to do. With Tom safely at work, he would be at liberty to do a little reconnaissance of his own.

And so after Tom had driven away, Chris picked up his own wallet and car keys, locking the door behind him.

Having committed Matt’s home address to memory from the file on the officer’s desk, Chris quickly typed it into his GPS and followed the directions.

It led him to a block of apartment houses, mediocre and unassuming, painted a drab brown and beige. The parking lot was open, and Chris parked near the back of the second building. The file had said ‘Apartment D127’. He was grateful it appeared to be on the first floor. He surely wasn’t limping as noticeably as he had been when he’d first met Tom, but a trip up a couple of flights of stairs would have done him no favors. Plus, he wanted to appear as strong and intimidating as he knew he could. A limp would only ruin that image.

When he found the right apartment, he glanced around, noting the warm stillness of the place. Stray toy bicycles and punctured kick balls and frayed jump ropes lay strewn over the center garden area, if a garden is what the barren plot of land in the center of both buildings could be called. There were two giant trees that cast almost no shade, their bark brittle and peeling. Small shrubs concealed even more children’s toys, but there was no one around that he could tell. Everyone was probably at work or school.

Turning back to the apartment, he took in its appearance. Scuffed door, shuttered front window. Cigarette butts lay scattered over the torn welcome mat.

What was it about this guy that had attracted Tom’s attention? Unless Matt’s dilapidated living conditions were something that had taken a turn for the worse after their break up. Not entirely caring one way or another, Chris walked up to the door and knocked.

Half expecting Matt to be locked up back at the station, Chris was surprised to hear shuffling on the other side, alerting him to someone’s presence. He widened his stance, bracing himself.

A man with the same face as the photograph he’d peeked at from the file opened the door.

He was handsome, no doubt about that. Blue eyes fringed by long dark lashes, a five o’clock shadow that looked more rugged than dirty. He wore blue jeans and a white T-shirt. Only a couple of inches shorter than Chris, but nowhere near as muscular, Matt narrowed his eyes in suspicion, giving him the once over.

“Can I help you?”

Chris stood to his full height. “Are you Matthew Abney?”

“Yeah, and you are?”

Chris let all friendliness fall from his face. “I’m Tom’s boyfriend.”

Recognition seemed to dawn in Matt’s eyes a second too late, and they widened in alarm. Of course, he had to have recognized Chris now. Maybe from some of his games. Or maybe from those pictures he took of him and Tom from the gate at his property line, or at the MRI clinic. But he recognized him now.

When he started to close the door, Chris threw up an arm and crashed it to the wall with a sickening crack. He swung his arm at the same time and punched Matt in his face.

Matt fell back and landed hard on the floor, scrambling up almost immediately. Stepping in, Chris closed the door again.

“What the fuck! You’re breaking and entering!”

“Shut up. Don’t lecture me on crime, you piece of shit.”

He bent and grabbed the flailing man by the collar of his shirt, hauling him up and slamming him against the wall. Rearing back, he landed another solid punch, this time on his jaw, enjoying the snap of Matt’s head from the blow.

Grunting, Matt tried dislodging Chris’s fists from his shirt, but it was no use. Chris was stronger.

Pressing his face close, Chris kept his voice down. “Why the fuck aren’t you in jail?”

Anger flashed in Matt’s eyes, no doubt unaccustomed to being bested by another man. Tough shit. He slammed him back against the wall again, growling at him to answer.

Matt sneered and then tried jamming his knee into Chris’s crotch, but Chris dodged to the side and they shuffled for a moment, arms flailing and fists jabbing. Chris ended up with a fistful of Matt’s hair and he threw him to the floor, letting their momentum spiral his long body through the air. Lifting his good leg, he kicked Matt hard, on his stomach, lower back, twice more on the thick meat of his thigh.

With the wind knocked out of him, Matt could only gasp through the pain, arms wrapped around his middle to protect himself.

Feeling no remorse, remembering only the horrifying things he had done to Tom, Chris grabbed him up again and pinned him face first against the wall, holding him tight by the hair. Yanking hard, he smashed his forehead into the already cracked cheap wood paneling, knowing it wouldn’t do too much damage, but would get the other man’s attention.

“Answer me, you fuck. Why aren’t you in jail?”

As if sensing a lost cause, Matt hesitated and then gritted out: “I was, alright! I was. They took me in the next night, kept me for the full day. But I made bail.”

“You afforded bail?”

“Fuck you!”

Chris yanked on his hair again and then wrapped a hand around the struggling man’s throat, squeezing, intent clear.

Matt started laughing, his throat bobbing in Chris’s palm. “How is that sweet piece of ass, huh? You fuck him yet?”

“Every day,” Chris admitted smugly, enjoying the fuming silence that met his answer.

“Yeah, well, waste of time anyway,” Matt wheezed, still trying to throw Chris off. “That little cunt never wanted to do anything fun. Never let us go to where I knew I could liberate him. Wouldn’t even let me come in him, either.”

He shut up after that, as if furious at himself for admitting something so personal. And humiliating.

Deep inside, Chris was ecstatic at that newfound knowledge.

Spinning Matt once more, Chris crowded him against the wall, hands fisted in his shirt again.

“You listen to me. You don’t come around Tom anymore. You don’t come around his work, or any other place he likes to frequent. You don’t call or text or email him. Do you hear me?”

He drew his arm back and landed another blow on the man’s face. A small crack sounded in the room, and then blood started gushing from his nose.

Matt cried out brokenly, wetly, squeezing his eyes from the pain. Guttural, he cried, "Jesus Christ!"

“How do you like that, huh? Feeling kind of powerless? Getting hit like this? Does it _hurt_?”

He smacked him with an open palm, once, and then backhanded him. Matt bawled loudly, eyes frantic on his face.

“Stop!”

“Is that what Tom asked you to do? To stop? And did you do it?”

He smacked him again.

“He isn’t yours anymore!” Chris shouted, heart racing from the desire to pummel the guy to death. “He was never yours. Not like he’s given himself to me. Not like I take care of him and keep him safe. Especially from shits like you. You better fucking believe me when I say that I have friends, Matt. Friends who are bigger and stronger than me. And we will cut your life short if you ever dare approach Tom again, in any way. Got it?” Chris shook him roughly once more, Matt’s head banging into the wall. “You hear me!”

Matt’s eyes were wide and round, his grip on Chris’s wrists slippery. But he nodded after a moment, breathing openly through his mouth, his nose clogged with blood.

“And anymore sick, stalker photographs show up at the newspaper _anonymously_ , I’ll be making another visit, this time with my friends.” He drew back slightly, a small smile creeping into his face. “Trust me. This is too big for you, Matty. Let it go. Leave him alone, and we’ll be good. Remember, you touch him again, I’ll fucking kill you.” He clapped an open palm to Matt’s still bleeding face, enjoying the wince given by the man, and then released him.

Matt dropped like a sack of stones, sliding along the wall and crumpling to the dirty floor.

Chris stared a hole into his head, long enough that Matt made what sounded an awful lot like a whimper, and cast his eyes to the floor, one arm wrapped gingerly around his own waist, his other hand cupping his nose.

Heart pounding, Chris let himself out of the apartment, shutting the door behind him with a hard click. Back in his car, the adrenaline started to burn through his system, making his hands shake as he wiped them down with a rag he found under the seat. He contemplated whether or not he should tell Tom what he just did. Remembering what he had said about Chris and his controlled violence, Chris felt a small worm of guilt curl into his gut. He felt as if he might have let Tom down somehow. But then the words Matt had said about Tom, the names he’d called him, the pain and anguish and fear Tom had felt at his hands came bursting back into his mind, and all guilt melted away.

And then other words, more gently spoken, more loving, flowed into his heart.

_You’ve already saved me, mate. I hope I can meet you halfway now. I don’t want to disappoint you._

_Oh, my darling_ , Tom had replied. _You could never_.

**

Driving back home took longer than expected. He didn’t feel pressured by the adrenaline and the need to finally be face to face with the sick bastard who had hurt Tom. But his eyes drooped and his hands trembled and he wondered if it was because he beat the guy good and hard, as he deserved, or if he was worried about what Tom would say about it.

When he arrived at his house, it was still early afternoon. Tom wouldn’t be home for a few more hours. Chris made his way upstairs and took a hot shower, scrubbing away the flecks of blood crusted on his knuckles. His skin hadn’t split, which either meant he really hadn’t hit Matt very hard, or he hadn’t hit him hard enough for long enough. Either way, his hands were only slightly sore, but already they were starting to bruise. He rubbed at them, wondering if he could hide them from Tom.

He didn’t regret it. Everything Tom had told him, all the details of his fear and his pain, were like fuel to the simmering rage in Chris’s heart. It combusted inside him, the idea that this trust Tom had willingly put in another person, this faith, had been betrayed, mocked, turned completely around so that he didn’t know what was real or feigned.

That was no way to live, Chris thought, fuming. It was a terrible way to be, to be intimate with someone. It wasn’t right. He scrubbed at his hair, wanting every particle of filth to be off him. How alone Tom must have felt, how desperate and terrified. Even a piece of paper wasn’t enough to guarantee a person’s distance, but he was so grateful to Norman for being there for Tom, every step of the way. Taking that step, getting the restraining order, was the best thing Tom could have done. At least now every instance of Matt’s violence would be documented.

And now, especially, Chris would also be there to stop any further attacks. Not that he believed Matt would even consider trying again.

And to think, Tom was the happiest person Chris knew. He hadn’t let what he’d experienced disgrace him, or darken him or make him anything but what he was. This lovely and caring person, deserving of only the best of love and tenderness and joy. He remembered when he’d first met Tom, his initial fear that he would taint Tom’s heart, would ruin him in some way with his own anger and impatience and frustration at life. But he realized now that that wasn’t possible. The inner workings of Tom’s unimaginably large heart were shatterproof, pure and made only of light. It gave Chris a great sense of privilege to be granted access to that heart.

Still feeling unclean, Chris dried himself off and changed into some loose workout clothes. Tom would get home soon, ready to start his therapy session.

He ate a small meal, mostly veggies and water, and then started his stretches in his small gym.

A while later, he heard the front door open and close, and then Tom’s voice, cheerful. “Darling? Hello?”

He heard keys dropping on the kitchen counter and then steps heading down the hall.

Spongy steps on the mat, leading toward him. He dropped to his knees beside him. “Found you,” Tom murmured, nuzzling his cheek.

“Found me,” Chris replied softly, angling his chin up for a kiss. Tom gifted him with more than one, and before he knew it they were rolling on the floor, Tom under him.

“This isn’t how therapy goes, young man,” Tom chided playfully, hooking his hands behind Chris’s neck.

“What? It isn’t? Then we’ve been doing it wrong this whole time.”

Tom chuckled and let Chris mouth at his neck. Making out was one of the best things Chris couldn’t believe he’d been going without for years now. Sex, especially, but making out had a thrill that was both delicious and wicked, as if by breaking apart at a moment’s notice would only lead to even hotter sex later on.

Over the last few months, he’d quickly discovered all the spots on Tom’s neck that made him into mush in Chris’s arms, and he focused on those now, letting his lips skim over his throat and peck at his bobbing Adam’s apple, and then over to the side just below his ear, where he exhaled softly.

Tom whined and bucked in his arms, but Chris held him down, angling Tom’s head to the side with a loose grip on his jaw. Settling his mouth on the crook where Tom’s shoulder met his neck, Chris started sucking, desperate to leave a mark on that smooth skin, so pale and exquisite, with its three cinnamon brown freckles.

Tom was mumbling, something about how they should focus on his workout, how this could wait, how…oh please hurry. Eyes drifting shut, Chris adored watching Tom fall deeper into the haze that wrapped them even tighter around themselves. Any second now, his resolve would break and they would be scrambling to find lube.

But then Tom gasped, eyes snapping open. “Oh, darling, what happened?”

Chris released his neck with a wet sound and looked up at Tom. Only, Tom was focused on his hand, which was braced on the mat, splayed wide, supporting his weight over Tom.

Sitting up, Tom gently pushed Chris back, already reaching for his hand.

“What is this? Did you fall?” His fingers smoothed over the rough skin of Chris’s knuckles, which were definitely a little darker than they had been a few hours ago in the shower. They weren’t extremely obvious, the bruises, but it showed the depth of Tom’s scrutiny of his person, always checking, always making sure that Chris was alright.

Catching his eyes, Tom frowned in worry, holding his hand gingerly. “Well?”

Swallowing, Chris shrugged. “It’s nothing, babe.”

This was the point. This was the point where he decided, should he lie to Tom? Should he spare him the details of how he’d gone to his ex-boyfriend’s house and beat the shit out of him? He’d never lied to him before. Honesty was a defining characteristic of their relationship. Chris had always been particularly proud and relieved at that.

Except for the whole bit of information Tom had withheld from him, Chris argued with himself, about Matt and the pictures and how he had known all along who had taken them.

But then Chris blinked, realizing he wasn’t angry at Tom at all about that. If he really wanted to make an issue out of it, Chris could make the excuse to himself that what Tom had done was lie by omission, but Tom had simply been worried about them, about he and Chris, about what Matt might do. And maybe, if Chris thought about it hard enough, there had been a small amount of embarrassment on Tom’s part. A shame. This part of Tom’s life that he had little control over. It was something anyone would feel indignity over.

It wasn’t the same, he decided, as what Chris was contemplating doing. So he didn’t.

“I didn’t fall,” he said finally, blinking and meeting Tom’s eyes.

So kind, those eyes. So worried. “Then what happened? Look at this! Did you hit yourself with something?”

Chris winced. That wasn’t far off.

“I didn’t want to tell you,” he said softly.

Tom froze, brows furrowing. “What, Chris?”

“I went to him today.”

Tom paled slightly, as if he already knew. “Him?”

“Matt.”

Visibly recoiling, Tom tightened his grip on Chris’s hand. Chris had half expected him to let Chris go completely. He liked this better.

“And you two fought? When did you do this? What happened, Chris? How do you even know where he lives?” His voice rose, and he sat up on his knees, fully attentive.

Chris rose, too, more unsteadily than Tom, still not ready to put his full weight on both knees. “From the file. On Preston’s desk. I saw the address. I had to go, babe. I went this morning, after you left. I had to see him, see the man who did all that to you.”

Tears gathered precariously in Tom’s eyes, but he held them back, none falling. “Tell me everything,” he whispered, locking a strong grip around Chris’s wrist.

So Chris did. Everything about how he drove to the apartment, describing it in detail. Tom’s nose scrunched up, as if he hadn’t expected the kind of squalor in which Matt was currently living. But then he paled even more when Chris talked about how Matt opened the door, how he forced his way inside, how they fought.

“What do you mean, fought? What did he do?” Even now, his gaze glanced over Chris bodily, looking for some other signs, like the knuckles, that he might have missed. More bruises or scrapes.

Chris avoided scoffing at the last second, slightly affronted that Tom might believe Matt had been able to do anything to him. But Tom was in an entirely different mindset, he reminded himself. This was the man who had tormented and abused him. It seemed only fair that Tom would expect Matt to do Chris harm. Anyone would expect the worse of a person like that.

Deciding not to reveal all of what he and Matt had talked about—the names he’d called Tom, what he’d said about intimate matters—Chris explained, “He didn’t do anything. He tried to fight me off, but there was no chance. I beat him up pretty badly. I think I broke his nose—.”

Tom gasped, but his eyes were wide, fascinated, listening rapt.

Slightly uncomfortable, Chris squirmed. “I just smacked him around a bit. Kicked him to the floor.”

“Your leg—.” Tom touched Chris’s knee, his dry, warm skin feeling like a balm to Chris.

“Is fine,” Chris hurried to say, taking Tom's hand. “He had no leverage. I was stronger than him. Babe, I—I had to do it. I had to look him in the eye and promise him that if he ever tried to contact you again, in any way, if he ever _touched_ you again…I would kill him.”

Blinking slowly, Tom’s tears did fall this time, two huge drops running wet trails down his cheeks. He whispered his name softly.

Chris’s heart squeezed, near to bursting.

“I’m pretty sure the message got across,” he finished, looking down, a bit red in the face. He shrugged. “I was worried about telling you. I know you think I’m not violent, but to a certain extent, I am. I funnel it into athletics and it helps. But I couldn’t stand by without showing this man that I protect you now. That I am the one he would have to deal with if he dared try anything again. I will keep you safe, Tom. And part of that is a direct extension of my ability to broadcast that. This guy needed to know. And now he does.”

Slipping down to rest on his bottom again, Tom stared at the floor, his thumb rubbing small circles on Chris’s wrist. He sniffed and wiped his face with his free hand. He caught Chris’s eyes.

“What if he reports you?”

“I’m pretty sure he won’t.”

“But what if he does?” Tom reached for him and pulled Chris into his embrace, pressing their cheeks together. “I don’t want anything to happen to you. I will protect _you_ with everything I have, Christopher. There’s no way they’re taking you away from me.”

They sat together, holding each other tight. Tom’s lips were at his ear. “Thank you, my love. Thank you.”

Relief flooded Chris’s heart, and he squeezed Tom harder. “I’m so happy you’re not mad at me!” he admitted with a small laugh.

Tom pulled back and smacked his arm lightly. “Well I am a little!” He laughed shakily, smoothing his brow. “He could have really hurt you.”

Chris softened, pulling Tom close again. “Babe, no. He couldn’t have. He likes to get off on the idea that he’s bigger and stronger than most. Until he met me. He tried, trust me. But he quickly realized that he wasn’t going to win.” Chris didn’t like to sing his own praises, but his heart was beating so fast over his encounter with Matt, how he bested him. It was the most primal he’d felt since his moments on the football field, and he loved it. “He’s not going to bother you anymore. He told me he made bail and that’s why he was home. I honestly didn’t expect anyone to answer me when I knocked.”

“He made bail,” Tom repeated absentmindedly. “I should call Josh, ask him if he has any news about a hearing.”

“I don’t think you should,” Chris said. “Won’t they keep you informed of that?”

Tom blinked and nodded. “No, you’re right. Especially so soon after your fight with him. It’s best not to draw attention to ourselves.”

“Babe,” Chris breathed softly. “Even now you protect me.”

“Always,” Tom said, and they embraced again. “Now come, my giant. Let’s finish your session so I can get you in bed.”

“Yes, sir,” Chris answered immediately, smiling and climbing to his feet, not missing the irony of how relief made him weak in the knees.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so excited to tell you all that I finished writing Half Moons! I worked on it non-stop and now I will be updating a chapter a day until it's complete. The last chapter will be an epilogue of sorts, in the style of a letter.  
> Thank you so much for your patience and for sticking through this with me! 
> 
> UPDATE: Sorry, I forgot to mention that I placed a chapter amount on this story. There are 23 chapters in total. So only 6 more to go!
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely duskyhuedladysatan <3

Officer Josh Preston ended up calling Tom later that week. The hearing would be Friday afternoon, and Tom was required to attend.

“I’m coming with you,” Chris said the night before, after Judy had left and all the dishes were washed and put away. Tom folded a towel over the countertop and nodded.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

They piled into Chris’s car that night and drove to Tom’s house, where he needed to feed Felix and pick up some clothes to wear to the courthouse.

Tom’s house, a tiny two bedroom home nestled on a quiet street in an older neighborhood halfway across town, was made of red brick with small potted plants to the side of the front door. The windows were shuttered with white wood, behind which hung white and blue curtains. Tom hadn’t been back since his encounter with Matt, and Chris eyed the front walk, believing he could see signs of the scuffle in the dirt.

Once inside, Tom flipped on lights here and there, and Chris could finally see the place where his boyfriend called home. The kitchen was open, leading straight into a makeshift dining room/living room. There was one sofa and a television on a handsome black stand, polished and clean of dust. The fish tank was placed just beneath the large window on the other side of the living room. It was lit brightly, plastic green plants and fauna swaying in the water. A small wooden hut stood in one corner, out of which stared two eyes.

“Hey, Felix,” Chris said, leaning close, his face inches from the glass. A tip of a nose appeared and then Felix swam out, circling Chris’s face once before flitting away quickly. Chris smiled. Felix looked like that blue fish in that one Disney movie.

He could hear Tom talking to himself in his bedroom, and he headed that way. The hallway was short, and after a handful of steps he stood in Tom’s bedroom doorway. Searching in his closet, Tom had a few pair of slacks and some button down shirts thrown over his shoulder.

Chris glanced around. There was no television in the room, but he did have a regular sized bed and off to one side, a bookshelf stuffed with paperbacks. A photo frame stood atop the bookshelf and Chris reached for it.

It showed a younger Tom, maybe mid-teens, with an older man and woman.

“Your parents?”

Tom turned to him and smiled. “Yes. I had just graduated from university.”

Chris snapped his head up. “University? You look fifteen here.”

Tom laughed. “Oh, hush. I was twenty-two.”

In the photo, Tom’s face was fuller, none of the straight angles it was now. His cheeks were ruddy and his eyes squinted as he smiled wide for the camera. His hair was a crazy nest of blond curls.

“You’re so cute,” Chris said, grinning, and then dodged a shirt that flew his way.

“Stop,” Tom said, turning away, but not fast enough. Chris spied the blush that crept high on his cheeks. “I was not. I was awkward and all legs and I felt like I had a million teeth and my hair was so…ugh. Not cute.”

Chris sidled up to him from behind and wrapped his arms around his front. “I say you’re cute and that’s final. What do you got there?”

Tom turned in his arms and showed him the items of clothing. “What do you think?”

Chris considered them. Four slacks and a few button up shirts. “You don’t have a suit?”

“You’re right. I should wear a suit. What was I thinking?” He turned back to his closet and started rummaging toward the back. “Ties are in that top drawer,” he said, indicating the dresser next to his bed. “Take a look for me?”

Chris found the ties and started sifting through them. He only had about a dozen, but he selected a handful that were especially lovely. In the end, they chose a dark blue suit with a white button up, and a silver striped tie, with black shoes.

“What are you going to wear?” Tom asked once they were back on the road. They had locked up the house and fed Felix, promising to come visit him again soon.

“Ah, probably some black or blue slacks, with a white button up. Maybe a blazer. I have a nice tan one that will look good.”

Tom tucked a strand of Chris’s hair behind his ear, smiling at him in the dark interior of the car. “Anything would look good on you, my giant. You’re like Poseidon.”

“Mmm, you haven’t seen me surf, have you?”

Tom’s eyes widened. “You surf? I can’t surf.”

“I’ll teach you,” he said, winking. “I used to spend all my days when I was a kid out on the beach. I always had peeling skin and sand sprinkling from my hair.”

“Adorable,” Tom murmured, no doubt imagining it.

“I’ll take you there some day. You can meet my brothers. I have two. Liam and Luke.”

“Two ‘L’s. Why were you different?”

Chris shrugged. “I was always different.” He tossed Tom a small smile, hoping that would be enough to satisfy him. Tom stared at him a bit, and then looked down, dropping the subject. Chris took his hand and maneuvered the car onto the freeway, heading toward home.

They rose early the next morning and took a swim in the pool. Chris kept his love marks below Tom's collarbones, knowing he would worry about hiding them for the hearing. Crowded against a corner of the pool, Tom clung to him, his moans quiet and urgent. Chris kept his kisses feather light, adoring the high blush on Tom's neck. With a wicked grin, Tom eventually floated away, doing lazy laps while Chris kept an eye on him as he worked his legs in some underwater exercises.

When they finally climbed out, they walked hand in hand through Judy's garden. Tom cupped some of the more fully opened blooms, leaning down and sniffing them with a smile.

"You know what this is?" Chris asked, pointing at the still growing sapling, whose trunk had turned thicker and a more brown than green. It was a little taller every day.

Curious, Tom smiled. "No."

"Do you remember that peach you left me that first time you came to check on me? I left the pit on the nightstand and completely forgot about it. Well I noticed this a couple of weeks ago and asked Judy about it. She said she planted the pit and that this is it."

Tom's eyes widened, and he stared down at the infant tree, his lips curling upward. "It isn't," he breathed, stooping and peering at it anew. "It's lovely, it is. It's us, darling," he said, squinting up at Chris.

The thought had already occurred to Chris, and he nodded down at his boyfriend. "So it is."

Skimming a long finger down the smooth stalk, Tom whispered to it faintly, soft words Chris couldn’t hear.

Back inside, Tom stuck to fruit for breakfast, insisting he was a bit nervous for anything heavier. Chris followed his lead and ate a bowl of cereal, staring at each other across the way. It was late morning when Tom led Chris through his therapy session, grunting quietly with Chris as they exercised his leg and stretched the joint.

Chris was exhausted and sweaty by the end of it, and they both lay back on the mat, breathing heavy.

"I'd like to try running soon," he said softly, finding Tom's hand between them.

"Not quite get, darling. I was thinking a stationary bike and then elliptical and then treadmill. Very slowly." He rolled onto his stomach and kissed Chris quickly. "You don't want to injure yourself and be set back again."

Chris nearly pouted. Nearly. "I want to run."

Laughing, Tom climbed to his feet and tugged on his arm. "And you will, my giant. But baby steps. Come on. We need to shower."

They showered together, and got dressed. Tom looked exceptionally sharp in his blue suit and crisp white shirt. He knotted his tie while Chris shrugged into his tan blazer. They appraised one another when they were finished, Tom smoothing his hand down the front of his jacket. He looked nervous.

“You’re going to do fine,” Chris assured him. They knew Tom would most likely be called up to testify against Matt, and that Chris might, as well, being that he was on the phone with Tom when it had happened. Tom nodded at him and then licked his lips, still not entirely convinced. “I’m not worried. It’s he should be worried.” He kissed Tom’s hand and then led him down the stairs.

The courthouse was busy for a Friday afternoon. Chris parked in an underground garage, pulling the ticket stub from an automatic dispenser. They took the elevator to the fourth floor, where they passed through a metal detector and had to stand still while a security guard ran a wand over their bodies. Once clear, Chris took Tom’s hand and searched for the hallway designated for the courtrooms.

“Number six,” Tom whispered. They found the right door and then stood just outside it, waiting.

Tom had been communicating with his lawyer via email and was told to wait at the benches for him. When he arrived, he shook both their hands, introducing himself to Chris as Paul Haley. Pulling them aside, he briefly explained what would take place. The judge would call up Tom to give his testimony and would then call up Matt for his story. Haley said that it depended entirely on the judge whether or not Chris would be called to testify.

“Based on Tom’s restraining order and the history of violence in the past relationship, this should be a no brainer. Just relax,” Haley said, addressing Tom. He clapped a hand on his shoulder. “He’s in the wrong. And the judge appointed to this case is a real hard ass when it comes to abusers.” He grinned and then sat down at one of the benches, rifling through some files in his briefcase.

Tom swallowed nervously and then caught Chris’s eyes. Taking a deep breath, he slowly sank down beside his lawyer, and waited. Chris appreciated the confidence Haley exhibited, but he hoped it wasn’t false, a way of keeping his client calm. Either way, he was mightily interested in seeing this judge for himself.

A few minutes went by and then the doors down the hall opened. Turning to look, Tom gasped quietly when he saw who was walking toward them.

Matt, alone and limping slightly, made his way to the opposite bench and sat down rather stiffly. He found Tom’s eyes immediately, and winked. But when he looked at Chris next to him, Matt cleared his throat and turned away.

Tom reached for Chris’s hand, squeezing it tight.

Matt’s face bore the evidence of Chris’s beating. Not so much swollen, but his eyes still betrayed a deep fatigue, as if he’d gone without sleep the entire week. His nose, bandaged with white tape, was surrounded with shiny flesh, bruised purple and red. Even though his clothes hid from view what was beneath, Chris knew that his chest and stomach must also be mottled. He’d kicked him pretty hard.

Tom exhaled and cast his gaze down, his foot bouncing slightly. Chris wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him an inch closer, their hands still joined between them.

When they were called into the courtroom, Chris opened the door for Tom and Paul Haley, letting it swing shut behind him before Matt had a chance to pass through. Inside, there was an armed police officer to the right of the door, and another by the rail leading to the front part of the room where the judge would sit. A stenographer sat perched to the side, making a note on a piece of paper before her, her typewriter angled to the side.

The jury box was empty, as Haley had warned them before hand it would be. A jury would only be summoned in the event of a felony charge, but this wasn’t that serious a case. Chris, for whatever it was worth, strongly disagreed.

Leading the way down the aisle, Haley ushered them to the front of the room, and guided Tom to the other side of the barrier, instructing Chris he could sit directly behind them.

The room was hardly full when the bailiff called for everyone to rise—simple onlookers or more court staff, Chris wasn’t sure. Everyone’s attention was focused on the front of the room, where a tall, black woman was exiting from a back room and climbing onto the bench behind the desk that overlooked the chamber. Her long hair, streaked with grey, was plaited into tiny braids and wrapped elegantly around her head. Perched on the bridge of her nose were wire-rimmed bifocals, and her lips were painted the color of rubies. With her black judge’s robes and lovely face, the woman evoked power and sophistication.

The bailiff called the hearing to order, and introduced her as the Honorable Judge Josephine Mabry. She glanced up at the room at large, and then announced that everyone could take their seats. Her voice was deep and rich, her words clipped and clearly enunciated, and Chris got an immediately good vibe from her.

“In the case of the State versus Abney, I take it the only witnesses are the plaintiff and the defendant.” She glanced at Tom’s lawyer. “Is that correct?”

Haley stood. “With all due respect, the prosecution has a witness available if Your Honor finds it appropriate.”

“Very well. And the defense?”

Matt’s lawyer stood. “No witnesses.”

Judge Mabry waved with her hand. “Proceed with opening statements.”

Both lawyers explained the reason why everyone was gathered, each outlining their version of the turn of events that led to the hearing. Chris narrowed his eyes at Matt’s lawyer. He seemed distracted and slightly harried, hardly glancing his client’s way; Chris briefly wondered if this was a court appointed legal representative.

“The prosecution may call its first witness.”

Haley stood while Tom was led by the bailiff to the witness box, where he was sworn in and then sat, wide blue eyes jumping briefly from person to person, finally settling on Chris. He looked beautiful in his suit, the silver striped tie accenting the blue of his eyes nicely. Chris felt an instinctual need to be there next to Tom, to block anything negative from getting to him. But he sat back in his seat and clasped his hands together, watching everything.

Haley asked Tom to state his name and relation to the defendant, before leading him in a series of questions that detailed the events of the night Matt attacked him.

“For a few weeks beforehand, I had been receiving regular text messages and phone calls and voicemail messages that were lewd in nature, threatening toward myself and my partner.”

“Let the record show that the plaintiff is referencing his boyfriend, Chris Hemsworth.”

Tom nodded, gulping quietly. “Yes. Chris. I hadn’t at that point told Chris about my previous relationship with Mr. Abney. It was such a—touchy subject for me. Uncomfortable. But the texts and phone calls were too much to ignore.”

“What did you do, if anything, about the phone calls and text messages?”

“I reported them to the officer who handled my original restraining order. It was put into Matt’s file, and the officer suggested I change my phone number.”

“And did you?”

“Yes. The morning of the day of the incident. I purchased a new phone before going into work that day, and changed my number. I hadn’t had time to let Chris know, so as soon as I got off work, I drove to my house and called Chris to update him.”

“And your boyfriend, Mr. Hemsworth, was on the phone with you when it happened?”

Tom’s eyes snapped to Chris. “Yes. I was stopping home to grab some clothes and feed my fish. And then I was going to head back to Chris’s house to stay the night there. Chris was on the phone with me the whole time.”

Chris glanced at Matt, who was staring hard at Tom, lips pressed tight.

“How did he assault you?” Haley asked.

“Objection! It hasn’t been established that this was an assault,” Matt’s lawyer called out without glancing up from his notes.

“I’ll allow it,” the judge said dryly, turning back to Tom. “Please continue, Mr. Hiddleston.”

Haley glanced briefly at his notes, and then back at Tom. “Please tell us what transpired during the confrontation between yourself and the defendant.”

Licking his lips, Tom shifted in his seat and went on to describe how Matt attacked him. “I was approaching my front door when he came out from behind the side of the house. I was startled to see him, and I froze, keys in hand and everything. He walked right up to me and punched me in the face, here,” he said, indicating his left cheek. “And my phone dropped. He took me by the collar of my shirt and yelled at me. Asking who I was talking with. Why was I such a whore. Why was I ignoring him. If I was staying the night or going back to him. He meant Chris,” Tom said quietly, glancing at the judge. She nodded gently and he continued. “I pleaded with him to stop, telling him he wasn’t supposed to be there. To let me go. To stop hurting me. He smacked me again, twice, this time on the mouth. I could hear Chris yelling from the phone.” Tom stopped, taking a deep breath. Chris took one with him, trying to send him strength. Even though Tom’s bruised cheekbone and split lip had started to heal, there was still evidence of them on his face, and he hoped the judge paid close attention to that. “I was able to bring my knee up. Caught him in the groin. We fell, and I rolled away, got to my feet, grabbed my phone and ran to my car.”

“After you got in your car, what happened?”

“He pounded on my window. He'd been right behind me. I managed to lock the doors and start the car. Everything was so loud and quiet at the same time. Him pounding on the window, Chris’s voice from the phone, the car engine. I was crying. I could hardly breathe. But I was able to put it in gear and drive away.”

“And then?” Haley asked.

“I picked up the phone and spoke with Chris, told him I was coming to his house. To wait for me there. When I got there, we took his car to the police station, where Officer Josh Preston took my pictures and my statement and filed the report on Matt’s violation of the restraining order.”

“I’d like to enter into evidence a copy of that restraining order, as well as every subsequent renewal of that restraining order since its original implementation, and the photographs of my client taken by Officer Preston, from both instances of the plaintiff filing a complaint and making a statement.” Haley passed a packet to the judge. Chris and Tom had been informed that the packet included the photographs of Tom’s face, as well as the information on the restraining order. Judge Mabry, after reading over each page, looked up at Matt, her lips set in a thin line.

“Does the prosecution have any further questions for Mr. Hiddleston?” Judge Mabry asked, looking over the papers in her hand. Mr. Haley shook his head and sat down. “Your witness,” the judge said, turning her gaze to Matt’s lawyer.

“You said the defendant supposedly pounded on your window and then you locked the doors. If he really wanted to harm you, why wouldn’t the defendant have opened your doors as soon as he got there?”

Mr. Haley stood quickly. “Objection, Your Honor. That’s speculation. How does one expect the plaintiff to know why someone did or didn’t act a certain way? My client’s answer would be pure conjecture and therefore invalid.”

Matt’s lawyer reddened and looked down at his notes. Chris glanced at Matt, but Matt seemed oblivious to what was going on around him. He was still staring at Tom, palm spread wide on the desk before him, a small smile on his face.

Tom, clearly aware of the man’s scrutiny, fidgeted in his seat, hands fisted on his lap.

 _Look at me, baby_ , Chris willed him, trying to catch Tom’s eye. But then Matt’s lawyer abruptly ended his cross-examination, and Tom was led back to his seat by the bailiff. Halfway there, the judge stopped the bailiff with some low words and summoned Tom to the bench. “Let me see, please,” Chris heard her whisper. She peered down at Tom’s face, eyes darting over his cheek and down to his lip, comparing them to the photographs in her hand. She smiled at Tom and motioned for them to continue. It was hard to ignore the look she threw Matt’s way.

“Would the prosecution like to call its second witness?”

“Yes, Your Honor. The prosecution calls Chris Hemsworth to the stand.”

Feeling slightly out of body, Chris rose and followed the bailiff to the witness chair, swearing over the Bible and sitting slowly. The entire courtroom looked different from that angle, deeper almost. It gave a fishbowl effect that had Chris feeling slightly dizzy. The lights were bright and every pair of eyes was fixated on him. He smoothed down his shirt and remained calm, sitting back as Haley addressed him from behind his desk. Chris liked that technique, as if this was going to take no amount of time. It gave the impression that they’d already won.

“Tell us about the phone call you had with Tom the night of the incident.”

Chris cleared his throat and sat forward in his seat. “I had had a feeling—.”

“Feeling?” Matt’s lawyer interrupted. “Football players have feelings?”

“Counselor!” Judge Mabry shouted, her sharp eyes focused on the lawyer. “Unless there is an objection to the five words this man has spoken, I suggest you withhold your comments until it is your turn.”

The entire room fell into a dead quiet, everyone watching how the judge held the counselor in her glare for an easy ten seconds before she looked away and motioned for Chris to continue.

Ignoring everyone but her, he said, “I had had a feeling that something was happening with Tom. He was off. He seemed nervous, especially as he left that morning for work. I’ve been staying home because of an injury to my leg, but I would still get up with him in the morning, drink coffee or whatnot, before he left for the day. Anyway, he was taking longer than usual to come down the stairs and when I called up to him, he rushed down and left in a hurry, saying he would be back after work. He usually wasn’t so rushed in the mornings, and he’d seemed anxious as he left the house, looking at his phone more often than he usually did. I texted him a couple of times throughout the day to see if he was alright, but I guessed he was busy with clients because he didn’t answer. Finally, in the evening, around the time he’d usually arrive for dinner, or call to say he was on his way to my house from the office, I received a call from an unknown number. I answered it and it was him. He explained to me that he had changed his number that morning before work and that he had been very busy with clients all day, that he worked straight through his lunch. He said he was going to his house to pick up clothes and feed Felix. His fish. And that he’d be right over afterwards. And that’s when I heard him gasp and then cry out. There was a loud clatter. I think that’s when his phone fell.”

“What did you hear on the other end?” Haley asked.

Chris rubbed his hands over his knees. “A scuffle. Sounds of a fight. I heard Tom’s voice, begging to stop, to please listen. I heard another voice. Male. But the words were too indistinct. I heard Tom cry out again, and then more fumbling. And then the other guy cried out. Another loud noise, and then what sounded like Tom running. I heard a door slam and then pounding. Tom crying, and then a few moments of quiet. I kept trying to raise him. I was yelling into the phone. Asking if he was okay. He finally picked it up after a moment, and told me he was coming to me.”

Haley nodded. “And you accompanied him to the police station?”

“Yes. I was there for it all. The report. The photographs. Tom had to take a few days off from work to let his face heal up.”

The room was quiet when Chris finished, everyone thinking on his last words.

“Thank you, Mr. Hemsworth,” Judge Mabry waved to the other lawyer, who stood.

“You couldn’t hear what the other person was saying?”

“No.”

“Can you correctly identify that it was the defendant with Mr. Hiddleston that night?”

“I wasn’t there. I can only go by voice.”

“Many men sound the same over the phone. He could be mistaken for anybody.”

The judge glanced at him over her glasses. “Was that a question?”

“No, Your Honor. No further questions.”

After Chris was led back to his seat, the judge announced that Matt could step up to the stand.

Matt limped over and was sworn in, sinking into his seat with a barely concealed grimace.

“Mr. Abney, what happened to your face?” The judge asked, finishing a note on her file.

Matt shrugged and looked at his fingers. “Got into a bar fight.”

She immediately ignored that and motioned for Matt’s lawyer to continue.

The lawyers each asked Matt a series of questions, asking him to explain how things happened according to him. He admitted to being there, but that it wasn’t exactly how Tom described it.

“Then by all means, describe it,” Judge Mabry said, looking at him out of the corner of her eye.

“Look, I was there, okay? But it was because I missed him. I’d seen him around with that other guy. I just…I just wanted to see him. To talk.”

The judge put her glasses down on the desk and turned in her chair to face Matt, taking the floor away from the counselors completely. “Did you or did you not assault this young man, battering his face and verbally abusing him? And let me remind you that you’re under oath.”

Matt looked from her over to Tom, and then his eyes slid to the left, where just behind Tom Chris sat. He visibly swallowed, and then bent his head, picking at a scab on his hand. He whispered something.

“Repeat yourself and louder, Mr. Abney,” Judge Mabry said.

Matt turned his eyes to her, angry. “Don’t try to pretend you haven’t been on his side from the beginning—.”

“Counselor,” the judge warned Matt’s lawyer.

“Everyone is always on his side,” Matt continued.

A high tension rose in the room, everyone fascinated and agape that Matt would speak so frankly, so rudely, to the judge.

“Control your witness, counselor—.”

“It’s his face, isn’t it,” Matt yelled, turning to Tom, who flinched and leaned back in his seat. Matt pointed. “That face. So pretty, isn’t it? And I had to ruin it!”

“Either you answer yes or no to my original question, Mr. Abney, or I will have you removed and held in contempt of the court. Now, I will ask you again, did you or did you not assault Mr. Hiddleston, in direct violation of the restraining order you knew to be in place?” Judge Mabry folded her hands in front of her and looked plainly at Matt, unblinking.

Just before him, Chris could see the rise and fall of Tom’s shoulders, his breathing heavy, his body tense. Matt leered at Tom, his lip curling cruelly.

“This is ridiculous! It’s always about him! Him and what he wants and what he thinks is right. I don’t have to answer your questions!”

“You’re right. You don’t,” Judge Mabry responded coolly, already dismissing Matt with a swivel of her chair. “Bailiff.” The judge motioned to the officer, who was already hurrying to the witness stand.

Chris was sitting on the edge of his seat, but still Tom was too far from him. He couldn’t reach him, couldn’t touch him. Could only watch as Tom raised a hand to his chest, how he started trembling, how tears started tracking down his cheeks. Matt was being forcibly manhandled by the bailiff, who was assisted by the two armed guards. They were handcuffing him, but still he stared at Tom, still he talked.

“I ruined everything. When I beat him with the belt, and the glass! Oh god, Tom, the glass. How could I forget. You wouldn’t let me touch you for the longest time. And I had to! That face that I love so much. That I couldn’t stand another person loving and adoring like I do. Yes, I fucking did it! He’s mine! Those scars on him are mine!”

The guards had him suspended between them, leading him roughly from the room through a side door.

Paul Haley, still and observant throughout the entire scene, sat at his desk, shaking his head, but smiling. He made some final notes on his pad, and then turned to Tom, handing him a handkerchief from his inside pocket. He leaned toward him and spoke some soft words. Tom dabbed at his face, and Chris could see his chest rise and fall with small gasps, but he blinked a few times, gathering himself, and nodded after a moment. Across the way, Matt’s lawyer was already packing up, appearing resigned to the outcome of the hearing. Chris wondered if the man had ever considered it going in his client’s favor. He doubted it very strongly.

As the judge started speaking, the steno clerk began typing furiously, careful to get down every word. “In the case of the State versus Abney, I find the defendant guilty on all charges. Sentencing of eighteen months in county jail, with no chance of bail or reduced sentencing as a result of good behavior or time served. After which, the defendant will be subject to a probationary period of three years to begin upon his release from jail, during which he will wear an ankle bracelet for the same allotted amount of time. Probation visits will be once every two weeks. Defendant will be subject to monthly urinary tests, pay his own court fees, as well as that of the plaintiff, pay probation officer fees, attend counseling and anger management courses. Any violation of these conditions will result in an automatic warrant for his arrest. Mr. Hiddleston, good luck to you, young man. You are all dismissed.”

It was as if everyone had been given permission to breathe. As the judge rose, motion burst over the entire courtroom. A murmuring rose over everything as Matt’s lawyer gathered his briefcase and promptly left the room through the same door his client had been dragged through only moments before. Tom and Chris joined hands across the wooden barrier, fully aware of everyone watching. Chris held Tom’s hand, and his gaze, as he followed Haley through the small gate and into the aisle. Chris pulled him after Haley, who was at the door waiting for them. He led them down the main corridor and around the corner into a side hallway, where Tom fell into Chris’s arms and wept quietly.

Chris held him, stroking his back. “It’s alright, babe. We won! Did you hear all those things? He’ll be locked up. He won’t bother you anymore.”

Haley nodded, touching Tom’s shoulder gently. “And probation and anger management and urine tests and they’ll surely garnish his wages for all the court fees he just incurred.”

Tom straightened, wiping his face gingerly, taking deep breaths. “Thank you, guys. I can’t thank you enough.”

Haley shrugged with a smile. “He basically dug himself his own grave there. The guy was like a time bomb! Tom,” he said, bending to catch his eye. “Tom, you did great in there. I’m very proud of you. It couldn’t have been clearer how things went down that night, and how things were in the relationship prior to that. Do me a favor, let your fella here take you out for a few drinks. You deserve it.”

The lawyer left after hugging Tom fondly, and shaking Chris’s hand.

“What do you say? Wanna go out and drink? Or buy some bottles to take home?”

“Out,” Tom said, wiping the last of his tears away. Blinking red eyes brightly at him, Tom was grinning, and Chris loved that. “I want to go out. And I want to dance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am going to avoid court scenes for the rest of my life. That is some intense sh!$.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just five more chapters to go after this one!
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely duskyhuedladysatan <3

Realizing they were starving after their light breakfast and so much stress most of the day, Chris took Tom out to dinner first. The restaurant was tucked deep between two hulking office buildings downtown; a lovely, cobble-stoned courtyard leading the way to the main entrance. They were seated at a table in the back patio, white lights strung along the arches lined with winding green vines covered in small white flowers. A fountain gushed quietly in a mossy corner, giving the patio a cool, moist feel. They removed their jackets, hanging them on the backs of their chairs, and picked up their menus. Their hostess departed with a promise that their waiter would arrive shortly.

Tom's grin was wide as he winked at Chris, popping open his menu and disappearing behind it. His eyes were still red from his tears, but everything else about him exuded a giddy happiness

"What are you starting with?" Chris asked, feeling his neck warm at Tom's flirty gaze.

"Mmm, well for dinner I'd like some wine. And then later," he whispered, and Chris felt the tip of Tom's shoe slide along his ankle. "Something a little stronger."

Chris met his stare, his heart speeding up. The waiter arrived at that moment and Tom's look of wicked triumph had Chris nudging his foot in promise.

Chris ordered a bottle of nice red wine for them to share. When it arrived, Chris let Tom taste the first sip, his eyes closing in delight. Their waiter poured them both generous glasses and departed with a smile.

“To the closing of chapters,” Chris murmured, holding his glass next to Tom’s. 

“And to opening entirely new books,” Tom added, blushing faintly. They clinked glasses and sipped from their wine, eyeing each other.

Their food was delicious. As they talked, Chris kept leaning over and sneaking bites off Tom’s plate, smiling sweetly when Tom helped pile the pasta on his fork for him. Tom’s cheeks were turning rosier and rosier with every refilling of his wine glass, and his game of footsie was starting to make Chris sweat.

Forgoing dessert, they paid the bill and left the restaurant. They sky was black, but the streets were well-lit and boisterous. Floods of people were converging on the sidewalk, music from bars and clubs flowed over the crowd, and more hanging lights twinkled overhead, strung from rooftop to rooftop over the main streets of downtown.

Tom tucked his hand into the crook of Chris’s elbow, walking easily behind him, zigzagging around the other pedestrians. When they passed a particular bar, Tom tugged at his arm, craning his head to peek inside.

“Let’s stop in here, darling.”

Cigarette smoke and red lighting gave the bar a rather shady appearance, but Tom was all smiles as he led the way deeper inside. Chris eyed the crowd, relieved to see other men and women as dressed up as he and Tom were, sitting in booths or mingling by the main bar. He didn’t want Tom drawing any negative attention, especially with his attractive suit and shining eyes. Already a few pairs of eyes followed in Tom’s wake, from both men and women; Chris felt something like a hot flame creep up his spine.

Tom found an empty space at the bar and leaned in, looking expectantly for the bartender.

In the end, Tom asked for a vodka cranberry and Chris ordered a scotch for himself. A loud burst of laughter rose up from the corner of the room as he handed Chris his drink, and Tom’s eyes widened when he turned to look.

“Ping pong,” he murmured, slipping his hand around Chris’s elbow again. It seemed to be his favorite form of contact while in public, aside from hand holding. He observed the group playing over the scuffed table, a small smile on his face, and finally pushed off the edge of the bar, making a beeline for them.

Chris thought about calling after him, but the noise level in the bar was high, so he hid his small smile and followed after Tom, drink in hand.

Tom was already in conversation with a few of the people watching the current game being played. Staying a few paces behind, Chris observed the others. One of the guys widened his eyes at Chris's approach but after Chris narrowed his eyes tactfully, the guy stayed quiet, continuing to watch him when he thought Chris wasn't paying attention.

In any case, he steeled himself for a picture and autograph request, sincerely hoping it wouldn’t happen. Keeping a loose grip on his drink, Chris leaned against the rail bordering the ping pong table, and cast a glance around the bar while keeping Tom in his sights. He sipped at his scotch, catching Tom’s eye and winking. Tom flushed, taking a long swallow of his vodka cranberry to hide it.

Seeming to have already made friends with everyone, Tom was being thrust a ping pong paddle, the others cheering him on. He played three games in a row, drawing a crowd after winning each one spectacularly. He downed the last of his drink amid cheers, before making his way back to Chris, empty handed.

“You’re quite the popular guy,” Chris murmured, placing his hand on Tom’s waist, on-lookers be damned.

“All it takes is a smile, my love,” Tom whispered, a bit out of breath from all the cheering. “You were a harder nut to crack.” Chris chuckled. “But I won you over, didn’t I? In the end?”

“You did.”

“Take a shot with me. And then take me dancing.”

Chris swallowed back the last of his scotch and ordered them two shots at the bar. Tom’s grimace as the liquor went down was endearing, but he recovered quickly and took Chris’s arm, pulling them from the bar and around the corner in search of a club.

“Do you know of any?” Tom asked, cheeks rosy.

“Nope. But I’m sure we can find one.”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s a gay club or not. I want to dance. Then again,” he said, faltering a bit in his step and linking arms with Chris. “If we go to a gay club, you’ll get hit on from every which way, and if we go to a straight club, all the women will throw themselves at you.” His brows furrowed delicately as he cast a worried glance at Chris.

Smiling, Chris gave a quick glance around, and then took Tom’s elbow. He hauled him into an alleyway and shoved him against the wall.

“Am I picking up a hint of jealousy?” Chris couldn’t help but ask, burying his face in Tom’s neck, sliding his nose along the moist skin there.

Tom squirmed, arching against him. “Always. And never. Because you’re mine. But I always feel a little spike of possession hit me when I think of you with others.” A small sob escaped him and Chris was alarmed to see his eyes swimming with sudden tears. “I’m such a hypocrite, Chris.”

“What? Baby, no you’re not.” He cupped Tom’s face and tried catching his eye. “What brought this on, my love?”

“It’s just that…I just came from a hearing that sent a man away to prison because of his abusive treatment of me, a direct result of his jealousy and raging anger and misplaced feelings of possession. And here I am jealous of those who look at you, who smile at you. Because I think, he is mine. None may claim him...but me."

Chris nearly sagged with relief, knowing that Tom was feeling the same bite of jealousy Chris had been suffering from since he'd first found out about Matt’s involvement in Tom's life. Bracketing Tom's face, Chris leaned his weight on him, letting him feel him, the heat of his body and the hard pounding of his heart.

"Listen to me, Tom. You must never compare yourself to him. What you feel. Remember how you told me the same thing, not so long ago? That I wasn't anything like him? That my violence is not the same? I say the same to you now. Your jealousy cannot be compared. Your jealousy is borne of a healthy and passionate attraction. An affection. A love. Not of some kind of mental imbalance. You love me?"

Tom nodded fast, a single tear tracking down his cheek. Chris used his thumb to wipe it away.

"And I love you. The jealousy you and I feel is normal. Please don't call yourself a hypocrite, because you're the farthest thing from it. You've never beat me, emotionally or physically. You would never throw things at me, would never hit me and not stop when I begged. And I will never do the same to you. He's an _animal_ , Tom. And you aren't." Chris kissed him, hard, their lips smacking apart. "You’re the only one I care about, you silly kitten. I can’t look at anyone else and be satisfied. Ever again.”

Tom sniffed and then laughed quietly, relieved, face angled up at the sky. He wound his arms around Chris's neck, "I look at you and see you are full of stars. You are my sky." He sighed when Chris kissed his throat, pressed his legs together when Chris widened his own. He giggled. “Don’t you dare get me hard here, Christopher. I will shoot off like a teenager.”

Still, he pressed his hips against Chris’s, both moaning quietly. Running his hands over Chris’s hair, Tom gazed at him longingly, the light from the streetlamps throwing his features in sharp contrast. “I feel so free, Chris. But anchored. _Safe_ with you. Does that make sense?"

Chris leaned his forehead on Tom's temple, and breathed him in. "It makes perfect sense."

They kissed again and then Chris grabbed his hand and pulled him from the alley, finding the first club that had any kind of music with a beat flowing from its entrance.

There were strobe lights and a bit of smoke puffing out of a machine in the corner, but the DJ was spinning the beats with a cool ease, slipping from one pop song to another. It wasn't exactly the kind of music Chris liked, but Tom's grin removed all doubt, and he followed him to the bar for another drink.

"What's that blue one?" Tom shouted at the bar tender, pointing at the mirror-lined row of liquor bottles behind the counter.

"Hypnotiq!" came the reply.

"What's in it?"

"It's a blended liqueur. Bottled in France. Has premium vodka, cognac, and some fruit juices." The bartender wiped down the counter, accepting some bills from the woman beside them.

"I want to try it!" He turned to Chris. "You want one?"

Chris shook his head. "But I will take a shot of something else."

Tom winked at him, but pursed his lips, as if he knew that Chris refused to drink it because of its bright blue color. He gave the bartender their order and Chris pulled out some money. 

When the shot glasses were placed before them, Tom angled his toward Chris. "Just a sip, darling."

Chris narrowed his eyes at him, but obeyed, taking a small taste. The stuff was strong. And fruity. He made a face and Tom laughed. "Ah, give it 'ere!"

His accent was getting stronger, and Chris felt his groin tighten. They clinked rims and downed their shots. Tom's face fell open in pleasure, lashes fluttering.

"That is good! It's sweet!" Chris nodded and asked for another scotch, plus a vodka cranberry for Tom. The song changed and Tom snapped his head toward the dance floor. "Are you going to dance with me?"

Chris could barely hear him over all the noise. He leaned close. "You go on! I'll be right here, babe."

"Who can I dance with?" Tom's face was wicked, eyes crinkling in mirth.

Using the bar as cover, Chris reached around and squeezed Tom's ass, dragging him close. "Women!"

And then, because they really didn't care and no one could see anything anyway, Tom kissed him, a quick, rough smack. Drawing back, he kept his eyes on Chris as he yanked his jacket off, folding it over the back of a bar chair. Taking his time unbuttoning his shirt at the wrist, Tom started rolling up his sleeves, his smile small and knowing. Chris felt hot, the skin of his neck and face betraying how Tom's teasing was affecting him. Tom loosened his tie with an elegant arch of his neck, and turned to look out over the dance floor. Without touching him again, Tom walked away, giving Chris one more glance over his shoulder.

_Fuck_ , Chris thought, taking a seat on the stool, trying to control his mounting arousal.

Tom quickly found a group of about six girls dancing together. He bent down and whispered something in one of the girls' ears, and then she nodded happily, waving him in. He took turns with each of them, his body moving as well as any of theirs. Those long legs moved fast, and Chris found himself attuned to Tom's every step. He swayed and jumped and spun the girls in circles, his hands gripping their waists. Laughing, Tom seemed so newly released into the world. So unexpectedly unanchored, a tiny motion of light in that dark club. And as if time had slowed, Tom twisted and faced Chris, torso rolling slowly, that white shirt leaving nothing to the imagination. Everything dissolved, the music just a beat, a thumping pulse. And Chris felt his own heart race at the sight, Tom's playful tease making Chris grip his scotch a little harder, half afraid the glass would shatter in his hands. And then the song changed and Tom was back in the middle of them, those girls with their arms in the air, shouting and screaming even though no one could hear them. They loved him, it seemed. And of course they would.

How easy it was for Tom to approach complete strangers and be immediately included in their world, their language, their voice. And how debilitating it was for Chris, the feel the opposite of that. To feel ostracized by simply walking into a room, a direct and immediate separation from everyone else settling like a cold blanket on his shoulders, throwing up his guard, never at ease with anyone. But that was their revolving nature, the basis of their relationship, and even if Chris would always find it hard to assimilate, perhaps it might start to become easier to care. To be kind.

He swallowed back a mouthful of scotch, doubting himself immediately. Maybe that wasn't his role to play. His role was to protect and love this man. Strive to provide him the freedom from fear and pain that had so hindered him before, to fully pursue what he loved. Chris, in all his mighty cynicism, was ready to drop down to his knees and thank whomever he needed, for being one of the things Tom loved. So great a gift.

Tom returned after a while, sweating and gasping. He gulped down his vodka cranberry, his throat working fast.

"Easy," Chris laughed, signaling for another. Tom stepped between his open legs and leaned on Chris's thigh. Chris wrapped his arm around Tom's waist, watching the drops of sweat roll down this cheek. "What did you tell them? At the beginning."

Tom gulped in air. "That I was gay and my boyfriend wasn’t much of a dancer, and if they minded if I joined them!"

"Smooth!"

"I hardly want to be that creeper guy who finds a group of girls and tries to dance with them uninvited. Girls don't like that! They feel intruded upon. They gather up against you. Up front, my gayness means they aren't threatened and more comfortable. Everyone and anyone should be comfortable while dancing. Never should one be uneasy. That's the rule."

Tom, eyes brighter than an hour before, stared down at him with mischief curling his lips. "God, how I wish you were sweating right now."

"Just watching you makes me sweat. You dance like a nymph."

Tom tossed his head back and laughed. "I should be so lucky." Nuzzling Chris's cheek, he sighed. “My giant,” he whispered, pressing himself flat against Chris. “With your puppy eyes. I love you. You know that? I love you and I will keep you forever.”

His breath was laced with alcohol, and his eyes were bright with its heavy influence, but his slow blinks and wandering hands had Chris feeling a far heavier fever himself.

In the end, Tom had four more shots of that sweet blue shit, and three more glasses of vodka cranberry. He danced some more, sought out by the same girls. His silver-stripped tie joined his jacket after an hour, unbuttoning his collar to mid-chest. But he always made his way back to Chris, snuggling close between his legs, hands gripping his shoulders tightly, as if afraid he would fall.

"Are you ready to go," Chris said in his ear. Tom cast him drowsy, glazed eyes.

"I'm bloody pissed."

Chris chuckled, noting he used the term for drunk a majority of Americans wouldn't know. Chris had nursed the same scotch all night, wanting to keep a tight eye on what happened around them.

"I know you are. That's why I'm taking you home now."

Tom clung harder to his shoulders. His lips found the spot on Chris's neck that made his skin tingle. Planting wet kisses there, Tom ground himself against Chris, his sweaty forehead rubbing affectionately in his hair. "I love you, my g-giant. I want you t-to fuck me."

Self-control hanging by a thread, Chris nosed along Tom's temple, mouth settling on his ear and sucking gently. "Home. Now."

Tom snapped up quickly. "L-let me say bye to—to my friends. D-do you w-want me to introduce you, darling?"

Chris helped him straightened from his crouch on Chris's lap, watching his balance. "No, baby. It's okay. Want me to wait here?" He hoped Tom would ask him to come along, just so that he could catch him should he fall. But Tom nodded and then dashed away, finding the girls in a corner of the club, all spread out in a plush, purple booth. They all hugged Tom, some kissing his cheeks and mussing his hair. He squeezed back hard and kissed their hands, and Chris knew that probably all of them were half in love with him already.

Folding the tie carefully, Chris tucked it into his back pocket and draped Tom's jacket over his arm. He paid their tab and left the bartender a good tip. The man nodded his gratitude.

When Tom found him again, Chris swept him under his arm and they left the dim smoky cavern and stepped out onto the street. It was just after two in the morning, and most places were shutting down for the night. Tom was giggling, murmuring sweetly as he rubbed his cheek on Chris's shoulder. He was unsteady on his feet, but they clung to each other, Chris watching the people milling around.

The fresh air must have hit Tom hard, because he kept trying to cuddle into Chris's side, eyes closed. "That...that was lovely, darling. Thank you."

"You're welcome, babe. I'm glad you had fun."

Tom nodded seriously. "Oh, I did. I met the most wonderful young women. All of them nursing students at the university. Such lovely tits. I wish I had tits."

Chris squeezed him, laughing quietly. "You're perfect."

Tom hummed and kept quiet, following blindly alongside Chris, stumbling a bit. Chris was beyond thankful that his limp was practically unnoticeable anymore.

They made it to the car and Chris helped ease Tom into the passenger seat. He buckled him in, even as Tom curled up on his side with a sleepy murmur.

The drive home was quiet, interrupted only by Tom's breathy whispers, begging Chris to fuck him. To rub his sweat all over him. Would you do that, my giant? Would you make love to me?

Tom started running a hand up and down his chest, clumsy fingers catching on the buttons, but he was moaning and arching his back, whispering Chris’s name like a damn siren.

Hardly able to keep his eyes on the road, Chris's gaze kept straying to Tom, their hands entwined between them, Tom rubbing his thumb over the smooth skin of Chris's wrist, settling on his pulse and pressing gently. He blinked slowly at Chris, his eyes full of adoration and love, Chris found himself sweating from the full force of Tom's affections.

And then Tom sat up fast. "My jacket!"

"I got it, babe," Chris said, running a hand down Tom's arm, soothing him back against the seat. "I got it. It's safe. I promise."

Reassured, Tom collapsed back down, and then closed his eyes, hands wrapped loosely around Chris's forearm.

At the house, Tom found nearly every fumbled step they took up the stairs to be hilarious. He was wheezing and clutching his stomach by the time they closed their bedroom door behind them. But catching sight of the bed seemed to remind him of what he'd been begging Chris for since before they’d left the bar, and he immediately turned in his arms and snatched his face close for a wet, sloppy kiss.

Chris moaned and guided them toward the bed.

"Off, off," Tom whimpered, fingers fighting the buttons of his shirt clumsily.

"Alright, wait a second. You'll tear them," Chris said, removing both their shirts in record time. Their trousers were next. Tom tugged on Chris's boxers, turning him fast and pushing him down on the bed. Letting himself flop down on his back, Chris watched as Tom climbed over him, crawling on hands and knees until he was over his middle, eyes down.

"Naughty kitten, what are you up to?" Voice rough, Chris licked his lips and watched as Tom pulled his boxers down to mid-thigh. Without another word, he lay down between Chris's legs and took Chris's cock, hard and already leaking, into his mouth.

Chris hissed and arched his hips up. Tom grunted as he slipped deeper into his throat, pulling up fast to whisper hotly “yes, choke me” before giggling and swallowing him down again. His hand slid over Chris's sac, feeling cool and moist at the same time. The skin of his hips broke out in chills as Tom lapped at him, sucking the head, tongue flitting out to tease the slit, face shining with fresh perspiration and pure, generous lust. He groped at Chris's crotch, moaning loudly, saliva dripping and letting him go a little deeper. His eyes never left Chris’s face, and Chris, reserve gone, jutted his hips up again to feel the tight vibrations of Tom’s choked groan, lashes trembling in ecstasy.

"Fuck," Chris gritted out, hands knotting in his own hair, craning his head to keep Tom glued in his sights.

Eager, Tom bobbed his head faster, thumbs kneading the base gently, and Chris felt his orgasm spiraling closer.

"Babe, I'm—."

Tom pulled up fast, face alight. "Do it, Christopher. Come, darling." He jerked Chris with his hand, still slippery from his mouth. And when Chris came, grunting loud, he spilled onto Tom's face, long spurts of white jumping out and landing thickly on his cheeks and forehead, sinking into his curls, dripping from his chin. Tom groaned, eyes fluttering closed. It seemed as if that was what he'd had been waiting for because his hips pressed down on the mattress in tiny frantic pumps and he whimpered, hands flexing on the thick meat of Chris's thighs. He trembled and jerked with a small grimace, finally lifting his soaked face to the ceiling, tongue slipping out and tasting the come hanging from his lips.

Chris, eyes wide, could only stare as Tom came down from his high, fingers swiping over his face, licking up the last of Chris's come.

"Babe," Chris breathed. Tom relaxed slowly, resting his sticky head on the smooth and warm line of Chris's groin, nose inches from his now flaccid penis. "Babe," he repeated, but Tom didn't respond. He was breathing quietly, body completely limp over him. He'd fallen asleep. Chris collapsed back on the bed, covering his mouth to stifle his jubilant laughter, tears stinging his eyes at how much he loved this man.

Moving very carefully, Chris was able to extricate himself from beneath Tom, laying him back down gently. He rushed to the bathroom and wet a small towel, wiping himself down with it. Grabbing another, he ran it under the faucet and then returned to Tom, cleaning his face softly, wiping at the stickier, more clumped parts of his hair. He pulled off their socks, which they'd left on in their hurry, and then tugged Tom's pliant body up next to his on the pillows.

"Good night, kitten," he whispered, kissing Tom's forehead, smoothing his dark curls down before settling against him with a soft sigh.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only four chapters left!
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely duskyhuedladysatan <3

In the warm and dust-spotted mid-morning haze, someone groaned. 

Chris cracked an eye open, squinting against the glare of the sunlight filtering in through the window. There was some restless and sluggish shifting beside him and then the groan again. Looking down, Chris saw Tom trying to burrow deeper under him, hands over his face.

“Please…,” he rasped, voice thick and muffled. “My darling…please close…the blinds.”

Moving quickly, Chris climbed off the bed and lay the blanket over Tom, creating a small bubble of darkness, his feet poking out adorably at the end. 

Shutting all the blinds, he went into the bathroom to relieve himself, and then started up a warm bath in the Jacuzzi. He brought back a small glass of water with two Aspirin, smiling at the blanket-wrapped bundle that was Tom, who groaned quietly again when Chris sank down beside him. And then from out beneath the blanket a long pale hand crept out, patting around until it found Chris’s leg, where it squeezed gently and stayed put.

Chris smiled. “I brought you some pills. And water.”

A small, broken whine sounded from the bundle and then fell silent. 

“C’mon, babe. You need to hydrate. And then I’ll make you breakfast and we’ll lie out on the pool. Or on the sofa, or here on the bed – your choice.”

More shifting but Tom still didn’t appear. After a moment, he whispered hoarsely, “I look a fright.”

“Now that’s just impossible,” Chris said softly. Holding the pills and the glass in one hand, he used the other to search under the blanket. His fingers found Tom’s cheek, stubbled and warm. He caressed the skin, skimming his thumb over Tom’s forehead, which was damp and slightly sticky. 

“I want to shower,” Tom whispered, circling Chris’s wrist with weak fingers, leaning into his touch with a moan. “And I need to piss.”

“I have just the thing for you, babe.” With a quiet warning, Chris pulled back the blanket and nuzzled the still-curled up warm body underneath, cooing in his ear, Tom protesting faintly. He helped him sit up, Tom clinging to him, still dizzy and complaining of a severe headache. After swallowing back the pills, Chris gathered Tom to him, wrapping an arm under his knees and around his back. He carried him delicately into the bathroom and set him down before the toilet, where he relieved himself with a hand on the wall and a leaning sway. When he was finished, he let Chris pick him up again, head heavy on the swell of his shoulder. Chris turned to lower him into the still-filling tub. 

Tom gasped brokenly the moment the water touched his body, but he let himself sink into it, eyes still closed. Chris adjusted the water temperature and finally shut it off, the sound of dripping echoing loudly off the tiled walls. Careful with his leg, Chris climbed in next to Tom, who had rounded himself in a bent circle over his stomach, face pressed to the cool surface of the tub. 

Taking the bottle of body wash from the edge, Chris took his time soaping up a cloth and lapping some water over Tom’s shoulders and neck, which were still above the surface. He ran the cloth over Tom’s body gently, washing him over his chest and belly, down to his hips and around the sensitive curve of his knees. Swiping up between his thighs, Chris used his bare hand for that part, eyes intent on Tom’s face. His heart thumped at the small whimper Tom made, brow twitching, when he cupped his sac gently. Running his fingers over his flaccid penis, Chris cleaned him thoroughly and lovingly, kissing the cool patch of skin under Tom’s ear. 

Resuming with the cloth, he scrubbed each individual finger and toe, running it under the arch of each foot, each elbow and slim shoulder. Into the hollow of his collarbones, around the back of his neck and the base of his spine, Chris washed him, finally setting aside the cloth to pull Tom to him, chest to chest.

Leaning back, he scrubbed soap over Tom’s spine and down to his bottom, skin so supple and soft under his fingers. Tom, who had been in and out of consciousness throughout, started up a small murmuring, lifting his arms limply to wrap around Chris’s neck, hanging loosely from there.

Chris cupped his hands and dripped water over Tom’s head, soaking his trim curls. Rubbing shampoo over his scalp, he scratched and massaged, Tom letting out a string of sighs. He scrunched his eyes closed when Chris washed the suds away and wiped the water from his face with his long fingers. Once rinsed, they rested together, Tom draped over Chris’s front, face pressed moistly on his neck. It seemed he’d fallen asleep again. Chris was content to wait, draping an around the back of Tom’s waist, and planting his hand over Tom’s exposed cheek. He seemed to like that, Chris figured, having calmed and relaxed heavily against him once Chris started a lazy graze back and forth over the sharp angle of his cheekbone with his thumb. 

Tom didn’t rouse again for another half hour. The water was lukewarm by that point and starting to chill on their skin. Still dim enough in the bathroom, Tom glanced around owlishly before scurrying back to the safety and comfort of Chris’s neck.

Chris chuckled. “Wake up, sleepy head.”

“No,” Tom croaked.

“Are you hungry, babe?”

“Not sure,” Tom whispered. “Did I throw up last night?”

“You did not. You were a champion.”

“Hardly.”

“Eating will help. You’ll need to drink—.”

“No more…please.” Tom hugged him tighter, drawing his knees up and curling up in Chris’s lap. “My head won’t stop pounding.”

“I was going to say that you should drink orange juice, you silly kitten. With some coffee and toast and eggs and bacon. And later on some fruit and lots of water. You need to replenish the sugars and electrolytes in your body.”

“Yes you’re right. But I won’t like it,” Tom grumbled.

“Do you remember anything?” Chris asked, cupping Tom’s head gently. 

“Not much. I remember dancing. With lots of girls. I remember you watching me like a hawk at the bar. I remember walking to the car, but only a bit. Little bits of the walk, being in the car. Oh my god, my jacket! Did we bring it?”

Chris chuckled. “Yes, babe. We brought it. You worried about that last night, too.”

“Oh, thank goodness. Um, and then I remember…well, very little after that. Did…did we have sex?”

“Hmm, sort of.”

Tom sat up, face aghast. “Oh, no. Did I fall asleep on you, darling?” Brows drawn in and mouth parted, Tom was beyond horrified at the thought. 

“Well, you really couldn’t keep your hands off me, babe. We fooled around a bit, but you ended up having your way with me.” Chris shrugged, making a smug, teasing face at Tom.

Tom squeezed his cheek playfully. “Like how?”

“Well, you blew me and then passed out.”

Eyes wide, Tom stared for a long moment, and then burst out laughing. Clutching his head, he moaned and fell back against Chris, still shaking with quiet giggles. “Oh good lord, I’m so sorry!”

“Nah, it’s okay, babe. We both enjoyed ourselves. It was a good night, all around.”

Moist fingers traced his jaw and Chris leaned down, pressing his cheek to Tom’s forehead. “Describe it to me, my love. What I did to you. Will you, please?”

Chris cleared his throat and tightened his grip on Tom. “Describe it? Well, um. Okay. We got home and you were saying some things—.”

“What things?” His voice was feather light on Chris’s neck, damp and tickling.

“You asked me to…fuck you. To please fuck you.”

“Ah. Well, I’m so glad I at least remembered my manners.”

“You were very polite, yes.” They laughed quietly. 

“What else,” Tom asked.

“You were amazing,” Chris sighed, remembering. “You were a wicked little devil, you were. Your tongue on me, your moans. I’d never felt anything like it. It’s like you thirsted for it, babe,” he whispered, nosing along Tom’s temple, cheeks flushed.

“My darling.” Tom kissed his jaw, his long hand cupping the side of his neck, pulling Chris further down. At his ear, he whispered, “I thirst for it always.”

Chris groaned and caught his lips, Tom’s dripping hand rising to clutch at his head, fingers digging deliciously into his scalp.  
Eyes soft and lit on his, Tom whispered, “It was a lovely night, my giant. I’m free and yours and my own, and I feel perfect.”

“You’re more than perfect,” Chris whispered, kissing his hair and sinking lower into the water, letting its remaining warmth rise and envelope them both. 

**

It really did feel like a liberation, of sorts. There was an easier air about them, Chris thought, in the way they were with each other, how they behaved and where. No longer was there any kind of hesitation in Tom’s eyes or touch. It was as if with the letter he’d received from his lawyer that Matt had been incarcerated and wouldn’t bother him again, Tom had burst free from the cautious shell he’d walked around in, even before Chris had ever met him. 

He began spending more nights at Chris’s house; or sometimes Chris would spend the night at Tom’s place, Felix keeping a one-sided eye on them. The weeks passed at a much easier pace. Tom continued to work on Chris’s leg, graduating him to even more advanced exercises and lower body activities. Soon enough, Chris was logging miles on the stationary bike in his home gym, his leg much more flexible and loose. The swelling was gone from his joint and he was gaining muscle back; stretching became more of an enjoyment rather than long minutes of pain and discomfort. Eventually, he started walking at an incline on the treadmill, and then jogging slowly, and finally progressing to sprints at various time-limits. 

The heart was an incredible muscle, Chris found himself musing one evening while soaking in the bath. He could swear he felt it become stronger after each work out. With sweat pouring off his body, he measured his heartbeats and smiled, knowing he was on his way to being at the level of physical conditioning he performed at before his injury. 

There was still the issue of the restrictions to their relationship placed upon them by Tom’s work. Chris spoke with his coach and was allowed to remove himself from the care of the therapy clinic, as long as he continued to receive the required therapy at home. And so, with a rather carefree smile on his face, Chris drove to Tom’s work one morning and asked to speak to the head therapist. Tom, as nervous as a deer, was still attending to clients out in the main workroom, but Chris could feel his attention on them even through the walls. It was like a warm light on his chest.

Tom’s boss, Norman, was an older gentleman with smooth white hair combed back over his head. He listened as Chris described his relationship with Tom, how they grew to love each other. He kept it brief, not fully comfortable explaining something so intimate and personal to him, but he wanted to convey the depth of what he and Tom felt for each other, wishing he had Tom’s gift for words. Chris explained about everything that had happened with Matt, the assault and subsequent trial. Norman admitted that Tom had kept him informed on all that, and that he was happy that he had someone like Chris to lean on in such a difficult time. 

“When I first met him,” Norman said, folding his hands on the desk in front of him. “Tom was twenty-seven. He was so eager to help. So eager to heal. Full of a youthful exuberance that was hard to ignore, or not feel influenced by. He saw, and continues to see, the body as a pliant muscle. Ready to, with a loving hand, be conditioned through injury to its full potential. When all that happened with Matt, I was honestly shocked. I never imagined that Tom had this…this person in his life who would hurt him so terribly. Tom, who dedicated his life to healing, having someone who was so intent on harming him. Who would want to hurt him to begin with? He is the most wonderful, kindest person. It made no sense to me.”

Chris couldn’t agree more. 

Norman explained how he tried to be there for Tom as much as he could, accompanying him to the police station for the restraining order, and then later helping him move. “He’s the last person who would deserve such a thing happening to him,” Norman said with a small sigh. “So far from home. Keeping this all from his family." He drifted off, as if it were too much.

Chris met Norman's eyes. That was news to him.

Norman nodded. "Has his parents back in England. Divorced, but still close from what I understand. Still, his big dream was to make his career here in the States. And for someone so young, his ambition was admirable. And on the verge of coming true, no less! If something worse had happened, if it weren't for that trip to the police, I don't dare to imagine what might have been."

"I have the same fear," Chris admitted, feeling a strange kind of solace being able to talk to freely about Tom to someone who knew him and all he'd been through. "I wonder what else that man did to him that he isn't telling me. What might have happened to him if..."

"It's best not to think about that," Norman said quietly, kindly. "Tom is one of those rare people that you want to protect because they are the real deal. Lovely and kind, his heart unlike anyone else's. To be completely honest, you're not exactly the first person I would have imagined him ending up with."

Chris remained quiet, almost daring Norman to speak his mind. And the old man, despite his age, had enough daring left in him to do it. 

"You're known for your temper. Your cold heartedness. Your anger."

Chris breathed out, surprised by the twinge of hurt he felt in his chest at hearing it put so bluntly. But it was the truth and he couldn't deny it. Even if that twinge of hurt was new to him.

"If Tom were here, I'd reckon he'd defend you. And then he'd ask me if I trust him. And without a doubt, I do. If he chose you to be with, then I trust that he's made the right choice." Norman sighed and sat back in his chair. "After all this, it makes me very happy that he has love again. That he is regaining that trust in a partner.” He looked Chris straight in the eye, seriousness descending on him. “I know you are an athlete, used to getting your way. Influential and popular. Promise me you won’t hurt him and we’ll be okay, you and I.”

Sitting quiet for a moment, Chris gathered his thoughts, still trying to digest such honest words.

"I know what's being said about me. What people have been saying for years. And honestly, I don’t care. I haven’t cared about a lot of things since I was a teenager. Anger pumps through my veins as surely as blood. But you have to believe me when I say that Tom changed so much. About how I feel. Or think. Or act. He's shown me what it is to love. To reflect on myself as a man worthy of love and not just criticism and negative speculation. Before Tom, it was just me. And I didn't care. But I do now. I'm starting to see things differently. It's odd," he admitted quietly, feeling strange talking so openly to someone other than Tom. "These new thoughts and feelings. Being positive about myself. As a person. About my progress and my health and whatever I might still have left in my career. They’re foreign. But still remind me of something, like a small bit of myself. From when I was a child. I think back then, I still believed in myself enough to know what this feeling is. Because I remember it. Even if I estranged myself from it all these years. Does that make sense?” Norman hummed his agreement. Chris sat back. “Honestly, without Tom, I don't know where I might be now."

He swallowed thickly, remembering his nonchalance about his near accidental overdose on his medication, the breakneck speed he would drive when his leg was still not fully healed. Chris was fairly positive he would be dead from simple neglect of his own person. When had it gotten to that point? How had he fallen so far and not noticed the danger he was in? 

"He saved my life," he said softly, picking at a nail like a nervous tic. 

Norman watched him quietly, smiling small and nodding, as if he expected no less from someone like Tom.

Feeling a little surreal, not quite believing he was pledging his sincere loyalty to someone who obviously considered himself to be something of a father figure to Tom, Chris stood and offered the man his hand. “I promise to never hurt him. I promise to always protect him with my life before anything. He means too much to me.” He could never have pictured this happening when he walked into the clinic all those months ago, limping and full of rage. But it was cathartic in a way, and Chris was grateful for it.

Norman stood too and caught Chris’s eye for a moment before shaking his hand and nodding more firmly. 

When he walked out of the office a minute later, Tom was helping a patient with her stretches, yet still obviously hovering as close to the office door as was possible. He looked up and caught Chris's eye, brows pulled up in question. Chris winked at him and waved before heading out the door to his car, catching the look of relief on Tom's face just before leaving. 

**

It was easy, after all the commotion of the trial had calmed down, for him and Tom to fall back into their steady routine. Tom went to work during the day, and came home to Chris at night, for therapy, dinner, and sleep. He spent very little time at his own house, only going to get more clothes and feed Felix. Traces of Tom had begun to spring up all over the house—his laptop on the coffee table, his phone charger and day-planner on the kitchen counter, a plant with tiny purple flowers a client had given him in gratitude for his help with her therapy now rested on the windowsill above the sink, soaking up the rays of sun every morning. When she did laundry every Thursday, Judy folded their clothes into separate piles and placed them on Chris’s bed, but they all ended up in the closet of the master bedroom. Their bedroom. Their pairs of shoes lay mixed by the front and back doors; Tom’s favorite coffee mug from home sat next to Chris’s protein shake container next to the microwave; tea bags lay combined with nutrient powders; razor blades and shaving cream lotions and cuff links became interchangeable between them. It was hard to tell what belonged to whom, and they didn’t care because it didn’t really matter.

After Judy departed one evening and the dinner dishes were washed and stacked away, Chris realized he wasn’t paying attention to the television anymore, and was instead staring at Tom on the other side of the couch. He watched as Tom pursed his lips, long lashes blinking slowly behind his reading glasses as he turned the page of the newspaper before him. Legs stretched out toward Chris across the cushions, his toes wiggled in his socks as he scanned the pages, reading silently. 

Chris tried to swallow around the lump that had appeared in his throat. Licking his lips, he leaned forward.

“Move in with me.”

It came out so naturally, so easily, that he waited with bated breath for Tom to respond. Tom glanced up slowly, putting down the newspaper and turning to him. 

"You want me to move in with you?" he asked softly, removing his glasses and folding them in his hands. 

"Yes," Chris replied honestly, nodding. "I mean, I would really love it if you did. Despite the fact that you almost never sleep at your place anyway, I love having you here. In my life. Sleeping next to me. Eating our meals together. Working out together. I’ve started to run. We could do that together too. In the mornings, or evenings. Whenever. You could bring Felix and he could live here with us." He scooted over and took Tom's hand between his own. "I love you, Tom. We could start a life, me and you. And the fish."

Tom blinked at him, the small grooves of his reading glasses still marked fresh on the bridge of his nose. "Do you truly mean it?"

Chris sat up. "Yes! Babe, yes. I wanted to ask you months ago, but I wasn't sure because we had so much going on. You practically live here anyway! Only this way, you wouldn't feel obligated to leave to make sure your house hasn't burned down or Felix hasn't invited all his shark friends over to play poker."

Tom grinned, a blush rising slowly over his cheeks. "I guess it has been rather superfluous to make a house payment when I'm hardly ever there."

"Exactly! But more than that, I really want us to be together, to be with you. To build a life. I know you've been thinking about going back to school, to get your MD. We could start saving for that. I really want to help you in any way I can, to be a good partner to you." He waited, eyes darting over Tom's face, trying to gauge how he felt about the whole thing. 

Tom licked his lips and looked down at their twined hands. 

"Okay," he said softly.

“Okay?” Chris repeated, just as softly.

Tom looked up, face beaming, and grinned. “Of course, darling. Yes!”

Chris rose up on his knees and grabbed him up in a fierce hug. 

They laughed together, Chris kissing every inch of Tom's face. 

"Thank you, baby," he breathed, settling down against him with a quiet exhale. "Thank you. I cannot imagine anyone else for me. Having you here, I can't tell you how happy that makes me. How alive I feel. This big empty house. It's yours, too."

Tom's eyes were misting and he smiled beautifully at Chris, each touching the other's face, cheeks hurting from all their grinning. 

"I'm a little nervous," Tom admitted quietly.

"But why?"

"Well, I've been in the mind frame so long for providing for myself—."

"I can provide for both of us,” Chris insisted. “Or if that makes you uncomfortable, you can keep your bills. However you want it, my love."

"I know, darling. I know you would. And that is so kind of you. Especially since I have been thinking of going back to school and getting my next degree. Your help will be wonderful."

Chris nodded fast, because he would rather burn all his money in a huge bonfire than not help Tom achieve his goals. 

"But," Tom continued. "A voice in the back of my head tells me it would be prudent to have a place to go in case I need it."

Chris frowned. "In case you need it?"

Tom blushed and glanced down. "What if something happens to us, darling? What if we get into a row and—and I have nowhere to go—?"

"Babe," Chris said, sitting up and facing Tom squarely. "I'm not going to lie to you and say we'll never argue. Of course we will! I think it would be strange if we didn’t, once in a while. We're in love and a couple. But you would never be unwelcome in this house, Tom. I would leave and beg in the streets before that ever happened."

Tom cupped his cheek. "My giant. I really don't see us coming to that point. I really don't.”

Chris smiled and reached for Tom again, pulling him close to breathe at his neck, that scent of home and love enough to sustain him for the rest of his life.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update! I went to the movies today and grabbed some groceries on the way home and it's 7pm here and I almost screamed because SO LATE. Anyway, here it is. There are only 3 chapters left!
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely duskyhuedladysatan <3

They began with step one. Putting Tom's house to rent seemed like the logical thing to do. It allowed Tom to avoid making a monthly house payment and move in with Chris, as well as still keep the house under his name in case he felt he needed it again.

He and Chris purchased a bunch of cardboard boxes from the hardware store and began packing up all of his belongings. Things like his bed, his few items of furniture and dishes were put in storage. His many books, album collection, blankets and sheets, wardrobe and Felix, all moved to Chris's house.

They installed Felix's tank next to the bay window in the living room, overlooking the pool in the backyard. Felix flitted about in the new, crystalline waters Tom had changed out, swirling in and out of the plastic fauna embedded in the floor of blue and green stones. He seemed happy enough, and Tom smiled as he watched him, trailing a finger in Felix's happy path.

Chris moved his clothes to one side of the closet, and Tom began hanging his shirts and trousers in the other. Shoes were arranged, underthings folded into drawers, the extra blankets and sheets stored away. His toothbrush was parked right next to Chris's, a rolled up tube of paste resting just beneath; razor blades and shaving cream lined beneath the mirror.

Tom took his time moving from room to room in his now empty house. The bare walls, the empty cupboards, the freshly vacuumed carpets, it all drew heavy sighs from him. Chris paced along with him, hands loosely cupped.

A number of applicants had already shown interest in renting the place, but Tom still had to choose one.

"I like the young couple. What's their name...Jonathan and Veronica."

"The ones with the child?"

"No. The newlyweds. No child yet. Or ever. Who knows."

"Ah," Chris murmured, remembering them. Veronica was still in medical school and Jonathan was working nights to help pay her tuition.

"Or do you think it should be the one with the child? Emily, was the girl's name?"

"It does come with two rooms. It would be nice for them."

Tom slouched down in the passenger seat, rubbing his face gingerly. His wounds were healed, but he was exhausted, Chris knew. Apart from putting his house for rent, moving all his things, settling in at Chris's, and working full time, he was also applying for medical school at the city's university. At the end of the day, Chris often found him at the kitchen table, the rest of the house darkened except for the one light fixture above him. Bent over stacks of paper, glasses perched at the end of his nose, Tom was studious even in his attempt to get _into_ school, murmuring to himself as he filled out form after form. His laptop rested just beside him, where he typed essays and letters of intent. Chris could only imagine him as an actual student.

Chris took his hand. "Don't stress about it. You still have a few days to decide. It will come to you."

In the end, Tom chose the couple with the child. The house was near enough to the main city center that it wouldn't be too stressful for the parents to commute to their jobs and to little Emily's elementary school. Tom felt at ease with his decision, happily handing over the keys once the paperwork had been complete. He would act as landlord only, accepting a payment from them every month, and providing any repairs to the house when needed.

It was with burgeoning joy that Tom climbed atop Chris that night and rode him until he wept with relief, body shaking from fatigue, eyes rolling back with a gasp of his name.

Chris continued his workout routine. Rehabilitation for his leg was entirely successful. There was some slight stiffness in the mornings, but it loosened almost immediately after waking up. Before long, he was driving down to the stadium to participate in late summer camps, running drills and scrimmages with teammates that were having trouble believing he had come back from so horrifying an injury. He just smiled and kept quiet, knowing that it was a direct reflection of Tom's work and influence, not only on his leg but on his mind and heart. He felt light on his feet, as tall as a tree, lunging for long passes or racing to the end zone. He felt more free than ever before.

During a water break one session, a few of his teammates asked about the issue with the newspaper photographs, and whether or not it was all true. Chris felt that old bit of anger flare up in his chest, wanting to snap back at them that it wasn't any of their business and that they would be better off keeping their mouths shut about it. But he looked down instead, at the football in his hands, his wide palms cupping the pimpled leather, and smiled.

"It was true," he said, lifting his head and squinting at the few that had surrounded him. The sun was bright in their faces and sweat ran freely. But this was like home to him. The fresh smell of turf, the gnats buzzing incessantly, the calls and shouts of their coaches from further down the line. He knew this. Here he was okay.

"The newspaper got ahold of some pictures that someone had taken of us. Thought it'd make a good story. But it's just me and Tom. There's no story there. Nothing for the public anyway."

"Tom?"

"My boyfriend," Chris said, standing an inch taller, ready to defend himself if he needed to.

His teammate to the right shrugged. "Sounds good. Glad everything's okay with you. Kinda lost track of you over the summer months. We thought with your leg..."

They all murmured in agreement. They all had expected him to give in, but he felt that perhaps there would have been no judgment if he had.

"I hadn't wanted to say anything," Chris started, fingers tightening around the pigskin. "I know how things can be in the league. My relationships aren’t exactly what I want to talk about with the media. I'm here to play and win games."

"Look," one of the guys said, reaching to touch Chris's shoulder. "Personally, I don't care about who you bang, okay?" The others laughed nervously, watching for Chris's reaction. His face, as always, remained impassive. "But you have my support, yeah? We all have the same goal here. What happens in our personal lives should have no bearing in it."

Voices rose to agree and Chris felt his chest loosen. He nodded, jaw clenched. "Thanks, guys. I appreciate it."

"And hey, bring Tom around one of these days. We want to see who it was that finally broke through that wall of ice!"

Laughter rose as hands clapped him on the back from all sides, the huddle breaking up with the blow of a whistle.

"He helped you with your leg?"

Chris nodded. "Yeah."

"Even better." Another shoulder squeeze and then they were back in the thick of it, flakes of recently shorn grass sticking to their skin and staining their clothes, shouts and clacks of helmets leavening into the evening sky.

**

After a shower in the locker room and a farewell to his friends, Chris got in his car and started for home. There had been something bugging him in the back of his mind that he hadn’t been able to pin point. It wasn't until he took the freeway exit ramp that it suddenly came to him, like a blinking light in the dark. He changed lanes quickly and then took the next right, headed for downtown.

Tom would be home by now, no doubt preparing dinner or swimming or feeding Felix, but this wouldn't take long. Still, he typed out a quick text that he would be home soon. And to be naked.

Tom replied with: _I already am. Hurry back._

Chris grinned. Cheeky bastard.

He pulled into the police precinct and jogged to the entrance. He approached the officer behind the front desk.

"Hi," Chris said, to get his attention.

The man glanced up, and was about to return to his paperwork when he did a double take and cast wide, excited eyes at Chris.

"Hemsworth," he said, sticking out a hand jovially.

Chris shook it, nodding a bit shyly.

"Been watching ESPN. You're back at the camps. Good for you!"

"Thanks. It's good to be back. I missed it."

"I bet. It's going to be a great season with you back on the roster."

"I hope so. Listen, I was wondering if you could point me in the right direction. I'm looking for someone who works here."

"You have a name?"

"I don't. It's a woman. About shoulder height to me. Small brown ponytail."

"That sounds like Detective Rosas."

"Is she in tonight?"

The officer turned and pointed to a back row of window-lined doors. Private offices, by the look of them. "Saw her head over there about a half hour ago. She might still be in. Hard to tell with the detectives. They're in and out at all hours."

"Thanks, I appreciate it."

"I hate to ask, but do you mind...?" The cop reached over to the wall and pulled off a Falcons calendar.

"Sure, no problem," Chris said, taking it from the man. He flipped through the months until he found his picture on the page for September. In it, he was in mid-sprint, football tucked protectively into his ribs. Just beneath his helmet visor, his eyes were narrowed in concentrated determination.

He made it out to the officer's name and then signed just beneath the dedication. The officer, all smiles, shook his hand again and then Chris was walking around the desk to the back rooms.

The third door held the nameplate for a Detective Sandra Rosas. Just beyond the cheap white mini-blinds the woman was typing away at a keyboard.

Chris knocked and watched as she turned to the door, waving him in.

"Can I help you?" she said, already focused on another pile of papers, a firearm strapped to her hips, her tan leather jacket doing nothing to conceal it. Chris had the suspicion that she wanted it seen. The woman was young. She had nicely shaped dark brows and a clear face; she was slim, her dark brown hair wrapped in a tight bun on her head. Black jeans and combat boots completed the image of a woman who would probably win in any fight.

"My name's Chris. I was here the other night with my boyfriend."

She looked up at that. Hand on her hip, her eyes narrowed in recognition. "You're that football player."

"Uh, yeah. But, um. When we were here, a little boy approached me and asked for my autograph. I noticed his mother speaking with you and I was wondering if you could tell me their names."

She had returned to shuffling papers, organizing forms into specific piles. "I'm afraid I can't do that. It's against—."

"I figured it might be," Chris cut in, stepping closer and lifting his hands in a show of no harm intended. "I don't want all of their information. It's just that. The boy, Tommy—." She looked up at him, those dark brown eyes hard on his. "He mentioned that he and his mom moved around a lot and it just seemed to me like they might be in some kind of trouble. I just wanted to know if I could send them some money. To help."

Detective Rosas set everything down again and crossed her arms, saying nothing.

Chris hurried on. "The kid was sweet. My boyfriend was in here because his ex turned up at his house and hit him, breaking the restraining order he had on him. When he looked at Tom...it just seemed like the kid had seen stuff like that before. More than any child should ever have to see. I don't know their history. I don't know their back story. But I would like to help. If I could send them money every month. Help them out of whatever situation they are in right now, whether it be where they live or to get them away from someone who abuses them...I just want to help."

Her gaze was starting to soften, and Chris knew this might just work. "You don't have to tell me where they live. But maybe I could give the checks to you and you could in turn give them to the boy and his mother. Or I could open a bank account just for them, have you be an intermediary, if you'd like. That way she could have access to the money whenever she needed it and not have it be cash all the time..." he trailed off, fully aware of how much he was talking.

After another moment of silent study, she gestured to the chair in front of her small desk. "Have a seat, Chris...?"

"Hemsworth," he said, sitting.

"Sorry. Not much of a football fan," she said, sitting down. "But the guys around here love their Falcons."

He smiled, unsure how to answer that.

"Tommy and his mother Stacy, and baby brother Ben, are frequenters. She tries to hold a job down, but daycare is expensive and the men who always slink into their lives are abusers or thieves. So. They move around, and I help her out as much as I can. I've put a couple of her ex's behind bars. But the others were smart enough to disappear." She crossed her arms on the desk and leaned toward him. "I'm not going to lie and say that what you offer won't help. Because it will. Stacy loves those boys. And she does her best to support them. But with no job and no help, it's been a rough few years for them. Shelters and food kitchens can only do so much. If you're serious about this—."

"I am."

"—then you might just be saving their lives."  

Chris sat back, the full weight of that sentence hanging in the air.

He had more than enough money. He had money to help Tom through furthering his education. Hell, he had money to retire now if he wanted. He was about to turn thirty-two years old. He was considered an older player in the field. Maybe he had another year or two left in him until he was ready to hang up his cleats for good. Money was never an issue. He still sent his brothers in Australia money once a year. His accountant kept him on track of spending and saving. More money rolled into his account every day from smart investment choices. His salary from playing professional football was only the starting point to a life he knew he wouldn’t live poorly. It was his way of proving to his parents that he didn’t need them.

He could do this. This was something he felt he could and would do.

"I want to help them," he said, lifting his eyes to meet hers. "I know there are so many people out there that need help, and this little boy and his mother and brother...I feel they deserve more. It's stayed with me since I left this place." He opened his palms. "So what do you think?"

Rosas sat back and considered it. "I like the idea of a bank account. She won't need to hide so much cash in her apartment, should there be someone there that wants to take it. The account can be under your name and she would be a secondary that could access the money. How much are you thinking of giving her?"

He shrugged, unsure. "I thought it could be a monthly thing." How much did people live on? He felt so stupid and naive and privileged. "Four thousand?"

She blinked. "A month?"

His face warmed. "Is that not enough?"

She tossed her head back and laughed, but not in a mean way. She was genuinely amused. "Mr. Hemsworth, four thousand dollars is more than this woman has seen at any point in her life."

"Then what do you suggest?"

Clasping her hands before her, she got right down to business. "First thing that concerns me is where she lives. All of her ex boyfriends know where it is."

"We'll get her a new apartment, then. Could you counsel her on that?"

"Of course. We can change a few things at once. Where she lives, where she can work, and where her kids go to school. As she starts to save from what you give her, she can buy a car. Get her license, start a retirement account."

Chris's heart was beating fast. He was suddenly desperate to make it happen, to change the circumstances of this mother and her two children. Tommy, who couldn't go to school during the day and hung out at a gas station to watch Chris’s games from behind the counter, deserved better.

"I'll put five thousand in an account tomorrow morning. If you are willing, with that money you can get her out of where she lives now and into a nicer place. I don't know where she might be hired..."

"I have a few places in mind."

"Good. Get Tommy enrolled in school. Get her day care. Every month, I'll deposit another two grand. Aside from that, I can start a trust fund for Tommy and his brother, so they can go to college. Please. I just want to help."

The detective studied him, finally smiling after a moment. "You're doing a good thing, Mr. Hemsworth. A really good thing. It’s the sort of thing that I used to believe happened when I first started as an officer. I’m sad to say that this is one of the rare times my belief has been made reality."

He swallowed, uncomfortable with the praise. "I just want to help," he repeated quietly.

"Good. Once you have an account set up with her name added, let me know. Here's my cell number. I can be reached at any time."

He raised his brows as he took her card and she shrugged. "A servant of the people. I just want to help, too."

They agreed to get everything squared away over the next few days, once Chris spoke with his accountant. She would look for an apartment and speak to people at the places Stacy might be hired at.

"You know, if Stacy were some kind of substance abuser or type of addict, like the trouble so many of her peers find themselves drawn into, I would advise you help pay for counseling or treatment therapy,” Detective Rosas said as she walked him out the door to the station. “But she’s not. Those boys are her life. And sometimes people just need a leg up to show their true potential. I really think you couldn’t have picked a better person to help. They won't know what hit 'em.”

"As long as it's no one else that does the hitting anymore," he said, throat tightening in anger.

She understood his meaning. "Is your boyfriend okay now?"

"Yes. Thank you. He's back at work now. He's happier. The ex is in jail."

"Good. I had no idea you were gay."

He laughed and her eyes crinkled at the edges as she smiled with him. "A lot of people didn't. It wasn't something I talked about. But Tom..."

"He changed everything," she finished for him quietly.

He nodded.

"Good for you," she said, sticking out her hand. He shook it.

"Have a great night, Chris. And thank you."

"You too, detective. And really, thank you, for helping me with this."

In his car, he buckled in and adjusted his mirror, noticing that Detective Sandra Rosas still stood just outside the glass doors of the station, watching as he pulled out and drove away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still working on Stray Not...


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I updated as soon as I woke up! And because things will be a bit busy at work tomorrow, I'm going to upload the last two chapters today <3 They will be up shortly. Thanks so much for being so patient! 
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely duskyhuedladysatan <3

As promised, Tom was waiting for him, naked and humming a soft tune on the living room floor, a newspaper spread before him. His reading glasses were becoming something of a kink for Chris, who spied them and felt his stomach tighten in arousal.

The smell of food met his nostrils as he passed through the kitchen. Foil-wrapped plates sat on the top rack of the oven, with bread and butter ready to be toasted on the counter.

Chris wasted no time stripping and spreading himself out next to Tom, nuzzling his neck and pinching his ass.

Tom gasped and turned to him, opening his arms and legs in greeting.

“Welcome home, my giant. I missed you terribly.”

“I missed you too, kitten,” Chris said with a smile, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his cheeks.

Between cuddles and bites, Chris told him in excited whispers his plans for Tommy and his family.

“That’s so wonderful, darling,” Tom exclaimed, grasping his head and looking him in the eye. “I admit that the boy has come into my thoughts a few times. I’ve wondered how he’s been. If he’s okay. Helping him and his mother and brother. It’s so kind and amazing, Chris.”

Another blush crept up his neck, and Chris looked down. “It’s important to me. I wanted to make a difference.”

“And you will. You do, every day. You don’t even realize.”

Chris palmed Tom’s neck and leaned in for a kiss. Tom groaned and arched his back a little, tilting his head to give Chris more room.

“I love your hands,” he said, voice a low whisper. “How wide they are.”

Chris tested his flex on Tom’s neck, his cock filling in interest when Tom’s lashes fluttered, his lips parting with an exhale.

“Look at you, lying here. Were you up to something naughty?”

Tom giggled and shrugged. “Maybe. This newspaper could be a complete ruse. To throw you off my mischief.”

Nosing along his cheek, Chris grunted and moved his hips low just as he palmed Tom’s thigh, gliding his hand up to his ass. “But you would never admit that to me now, would you?”

Tom hummed, disclosing nothing. Chris knew this was only a game they were playing, that there was no mischief at all. Still, it warmed his heart that Tom was so willing to play along with him this way, when before he might have expected it to end in pain from someone else. “Do I have to give you a spanking, then?”

Tom smiled and met his eyes, a high blush rising to his hairline. “I think you might,” he whispered.

Chris almost floated to the ceiling. “Come here, then,” he said, climbing to his feet and pulling Tom up with him. Sitting down on the couch, he widened his legs and waited for Tom to make the next move.

Hands clasped behind his back, Tom eyed him for a moment, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Finally, looking at him under his lashes, Tom bent at the waist and angled his body over Chris’s knees, draping himself straight, legs spread to one side. Tom looked at him over his shoulder, holding himself up with one hand on Chris’s thigh, the other on his calf.

“Go ahead,” he said softly, lifting his bum slightly in the air, an invitation.

Chris licked his lips, placing a hand on Tom’s upper back, palming his ass with the other. He had such a lovely ass, shapely and firm, a light dusting of fine blond hairs soft under his hand. He ran his fingers over one cheek, watching as the skin tightened and jumped under his touch. “Baby,” he said, low and reverent, and Tom peeked at him again under his lashes, face flushing.

Gripping him firmly by the back of the neck, Chris rubbed at the supple flesh once more before lifting his hand and bringing it down in a quick slap.

Tom gasped, but held still.

“Okay?” Chris asked.

“Yes, darling. Again.”

And so he did it again, twice, three times, four. Tom jumped on the fifth smack, back arching. Against his thigh, Chris felt the hard length of Tom’s cock, hot and leaking. Smoothing over the heated skin, Chris whispered to him, easing him and encouraging him with sweet words, fevered praise.

Tom was murmuring, his eyes closed. His fingers flexed on Chris’s leg.

The spanks became a little harder, a little faster. They grunted softly in the dim-lighted living room, Tom’s cries rising to the ceiling. Chris clamped his hand down harder on Tom’s neck, immobilizing him. And when he started trembling, his flesh bright red and clenching, sweat and tears rolled down his face in thin straight lines. Chris was overcome with the sudden desire to lick the drops from their paths, to taste the salt of his desire and keep it stored in his memory.

Beneath Tom’s wriggling body, Chris’s own cock was hard and curved against the flat plane of Tom’s belly, prepared to spring free at any moment.

“Good boy,” Chris said softly, and Tom whimpered, dropping his head at the praise. “You’re so beautiful, my Tom. I love you.” He smoothed his hand over the sensitive, heated flesh, and Tom gasped, blunt fingernails digging into his calf.

Tom must have brought the lube from their bedroom because Chris found it at the foot of the couch. He slicked up his fingers and searched between Tom’s cheeks. His entrance felt of an entirely different kind of heat, and Chris breached him quickly, all the more ready to drown in it. Down to the knuckle, he moved his wrist, Tom’s whines making his heart race.

“Easy,” he whispered when Tom bucked at the second finger. He placed his hand at the nape of Tom’s neck again, and it seemed to calm Tom, because he fell limp in his lap, breaths harsh on the cushions.

He opened him up, stretching him good, and Tom wasn’t all that closed up to begin with. If moving in together had done anything, it was increase the number of times they had sex. Every surface of their home bore some memory, some imprint of their passion.

When he felt ready enough, Chris caressed the shorn curls on Tom’s head. “Stand for me?”

Tom nodded and started to lift himself off Chris’s lap. He was shaking and Chris rose to help him, wrapping an arm around his waist. Tom turned into Chris’s embrace, burying his face in his neck, huffing out a quiet exhale. They stood and held each other, Chris rubbing Tom’s back in soothing circles.

Tom drew back, tear-soaked lashes clumped and heavy over wide and adoring eyes. He cupped Chris’s jaw and kissed his cheek softly, smiling wide and laughing quietly. They kissed again, all grins, grabbing at each other, desperate.

Finally, Tom’s soft but insistent murmuring had Chris lifting him in his arms.

Alarmed, Tom cried out and grabbed hold of Chris’s shoulders, wrapping his long legs around his waist in instinct. Taking four long steps, Chris found the wall and pressed Tom against it.

“Oh, darling yes,” Tom whispered, when he realized Chris’s intent. “Fuck me like this. Just like you said you would. Do you remember?”

Chris grunted his response, blood rushing at Tom’s thickened accent. He reached down and in one smooth motion was pushing past the ring of muscle at Tom’s entrance, both groaning and grasping at the other. Once fully seated, Chris moved to grip Tom around his waist, hands running low to cup at his ass, supporting him against the wall. Tom’s fingers were in his hair, pulling and scratching at his scalp, so that Chris moaned and bared his teeth.

He wasted no time in starting a fast rhythm, pounding Tom into the wall, letting the back of his hands take the brunt of his weight, not wanting his thrusts to hurt Tom.

Tom, however, didn’t seem the least bit worried about that as he clawed at Chris’s shoulders and jammed his heels into his buttocks, urging him on. He undulated his hips, trying to meet Chris’s pace, but for the most part, let Chris hammer into him, head falling back against the wall with loud cries.

It was every bit as good as Chris imagined it would be. And he’d imagined it so long ago, while still trying to fight his attraction to Tom, back when they were still only client and therapist, skirting around each other, words spoken with double meanings and long looks to decipher want or misjudgment. Holding Tom up against the wall, their mouths hovering, hands cupping his ass, the muted thuds of their lovemaking rattling picture frames on the wall. Tom was a writhing, warm bundle of living, breathing fantasy, more than Chris could have ever hoped for. And he was his. Entirely his.

From this angle, he didn’t seem to be hitting his prostrate, so Chris stepped back and removed them from the wall, standing freely with Tom in his arms.

“Oh, shit,” Tom breathed, wrapping an arm around Chris’s head to support himself. His eyes were wide as he looked down between them, Chris continuing to pound him hard, his legs strong and healthy again. Using just his arms, Chris rolled Tom’s hips so that he slid over his cock in an easy up-down motion. Tom was nearly as tall as him, only an inch or two shorter, but he wasn’t very heavy. All lean muscles and long limbs, he was light and lithe and smelled of chlorine and tea and the lemon blossoms from one of Judy’s trees out in the garden.

“I love you,” Chris rasped, eyes on Tom.

A hand clutched in Chris’s hair, Tom was panting, eyes drooping from desire.

“And I love you, my giant. My…fucking _giant_ —.”

He clenched and jerked in Chris’s arms, face upturned and tight from his release. Between them, he pulsed and wept ribbons of white, coating Chris’s chest. He was silent, as Chris knew he would be. Arms trembling, Chris clutched Tom to him, his body gone slack and heavy. Bending at the knee, he collapsed them to the floor, setting Tom down on his back gently. Hoping Tom wouldn’t get carpet burns, Chris pushed Tom’s legs up, folding him in half and slipping inside again.

Moaning, Tom watched him with hooded eyes, rocking beneath him. His hands crept up Chris’s arms, circling his biceps. He held on and shifted his hips like he knew Chris liked.

“Yeah, baby. Just like that.”

Tom whined and gripped him harder. Putting all his weight behind his thrusts, Chris wrapped Tom tight in his arms and started sucking a spot on his neck, groaning when Tom arched, their chests rubbing.

Very slowly, Tom’s hand crept down his back, dipping with the curve of his spine, rising with the muscle of his buttocks, where he squeezed playfully.

Chris groaned, continuing to pump hard.

A long finger slid between his cheeks and Chris stiffened.

“What are you doing?”

Tom smiled up at him, eyes still glazed with release, looking like the perfectly sated mermaid he was. “Shh, darling. It’s alright. Let me…please.”

Chris’s thrusts slowed, trying to think through the mist of lust clouding his mind. Beneath him, Tom was swiveling his hips, all flushed skin and breathy gasps.

“C’mon, my love,” he moaned, that damned accent thicker than ever. “Fuck me, go on. Come in me. My sweetest heart, do it.”

With a low growl, Chris wrapped Tom in his arms and started fucking into him harder, pressing him to the floor, their lips centimeters apart. Tom’s finger continued to tease at his hole, rubbing circles around it, his blue eyes zeroed in on Chris.

“You like that? Huh, my giant? Do you like that?”

Chris couldn’t answer, hoping the small sound in his throat was enough.

Tom grinned, and with mouth parted, those lips red and bitten, he pushed the tip of his finger past Chris’s ring of muscle.

Chris groaned, eyes squeezed shut, and then he screamed, deep and guttural. A rush of noise flooded his ears, all static and blood pounding, and he thrust down, the deepest he could go, rooting himself to the hilt. He came hard; harder than he could remember. He bit down on Tom’s shoulder, shaking, tears stinging his eyes.

Tom whispered his name, soft like a litany, holding his legs open as Chris kept up his rocking, desperate little shoves. Tom wiggled his finger and Chris whimpered, biting deeper into the flesh of his shoulder.

When he felt he’d been drained of all the liquid in his body, boneless in his stupor, Chris collapsed down, breathing heavy. Practically cross-eyed, he murmured slow, catching sight of the bite mark on Tom’s tanned skin.

“Hold still, my love,” Tom said softly, and Chris tensed as he pulled his finger out, not even having gone in past the first knuckle.

Tom’s hand found its way to his neck, cupping him there, and Chris felt for all the world safe and protected.

He’d gone soft in Tom, some of his cum leaking past his flaccid penis.

“Are you okay, love?”

Chris wheezed, and Tom laughed, hugging him tight.

Lifting up just enough to pull out, Chris fell back on Tom and they lay there, their hearts racing in their chests. They took one look at each other broke out in breathy giggles, kissing quickly, lightly.

“I’ve never…” Chris started, and then blushed.

Tom’s face broke open in curiosity. “Not even by yourself?”

“Never. I mean, I tried to once, in college.” He made a pained face. “But it just wasn’t as exciting as people made it out to be, and I never even breached.”

“Mmm, I like that I was your first,” Tom whispered, carding a hand through his hair. “Did you like it enough to try again?”

Chris shrugged. “Maybe. I’ve never come that hard before.”

“And just think, I didn’t even touch your prostate.” He waggled his brows, full of promise and a bit of mischief.

“Come here, you silly kitten.”

Chris pulled him close and buried his face in his neck, blowing a raspberry there. Tom shrieked and bucked up, laughing loud, trying to wiggle away.

“No! Christopher…Stop!”

“Come here!”

More laughs and growls, and they rolled over the floor, giggling and lost to everything but themselves, the blue figure of Felix darting this way and that in his tank, playing with them too.

**

Two months later, Detective Roses texted Chris on a Saturday afternoon.

“What is it?” Tom asked distractedly from somewhere behind the fridge door, where he was putting away their groceries.

“It’s the Detective. Do you remember her? Sandra Rosas?”

“Oh, sure,” Tom said, closing the fridge and starting on the canned food. “Is everything alright?”

Chris sat at the table. “She said that Stacy wants to meet me.”

“Tommy’s mother?”

“Yeah.”

Tom came round to sit beside him. “Whatever for?”

“To thank me, I think.”

Chris had done as he’d promised the Detective, opening a bank account under Stacy’s name, and depositing a monthly allowance so that she could get herself and her kids out of her current living situation. Rosas had kept him informed of how she’d been doing; that she’d rented an apartment on the east side of the city, that Tommy was enrolled in school and attended programs for athletics and kid’s craft hour at the YMCA. Her youngest son, Ben, was in an insured daycare program while Stacy went to work at the Barnes and Noble a few blocks from where they lived. She took the bus every day, dropping Tommy off, and then Ben. She had the mid-day shift at the bookstore, so that she could pick up her boys on time.

“It’s a starting point,” Rosas had told him over the phone one night. “But she likes it there. The books and the people. Said it was one of the best environments she’d ever been in. She’s wanted to know who would do this all for her, and I’m not sure she would have gone for it if it hadn’t been me that told her. But I said that I would ask you first.”

And now she wanted to meet Chris, and Chris felt his stomach knot up with nerves.

“Why are you nervous,” Tom asked, able to read him so easily.

“I don’t know. It’s like meeting her will make it that much more real. These are people that I wanted to help and I did, and it’s weird to see the after of it all. Does that make sense?”

Tom scrunched his brow. “I think so.”

Chris scowled, hating that he couldn’t explain himself.

“But I think it will be good for you,” Tom went on. His face lit up. “Let’s invite them over for a barbecue. Stacy, the boys, the detective. We can cook ribs, and the kids can swim—.”

“You mean, you can swim.”

Tom pinched him. “Hush. This is exciting! Would you like me to arrange it all?”

Chris, relieved, said yes, and Tom had sped off in a hurry, already planning what to buy.

The day arrived cloudy, but thankfully not windy. Chris skimmed the surface of the pool, checked the chemicals one more time, and inflated the plastic water toys he’d bought—a green crocodile, a tire shaped as a hippo, a long giraffe’s neck to play tug-of-war, plus two beach balls and a water jumper suit for baby Ben. Tom only smiled when he saw how Chris had worried over every last detail, but knew better than to say anything.

Tom prepared a bowl with sliced watermelon and grapes, plus Caesar salad and mashed potatoes—“I thought to keep it American for them. Would the children want fish and chips?”—and heated up the barbecue sauce to put on the ribs.

They had the grill fired up out on the patio and the ribs defrosted by the time Tom was carrying the rest of the food outside. When the doorbell rang, Chris straightened and turned, looking like a deer in headlights.

Tom chuckled and squeezed his hand. “Relax. This is going to be great.”

With a wink, he gave Chris a little shove toward the door.

Palms sweating, Chris took a deep breath and then opened it wide.

“Mr. Hemsworth!”

A pair of strong little arms crashed around his waist and Chris laughed, staring down at Tommy’s head of shaggy brown hair.

“Hi, Tommy!” He hugged the boy back, patting his shoulder. “Mr. Hemsworth? What is that?” He leaned down and stage whispered. “It reminds me of my dad. You can call me Chris.”

Tommy beamed up at him.

“Tommy, enough of that now.”

Chris looked up and there stood Detective Rosas alongside the woman he remembered from the police station. Her blond hair was plaited down her back, her purple summer dress long and looking lovely on her. In her arms she carried little Ben. She smiling sheepishly, trying to pull Tommy back from Chris.

“I’m so sorry, he’s very exuberant.” She leaned in to Rosas and, grinning, whispered, “I learned that word yesterday.”

Rosas, carrying an apple pie, grinned back and squeezed her shoulder. Tommy stayed latched to Chris as Rosas turned back to him. “Chris, this is Stacy, her son Ben, and you know Tommy.”

Chris held out his hand. “It’s so great to finally meet you, Stacy. Please come in.”

She thanked him and followed Rosas inside. Her eyes widened when she took in his front hall, the staircase leading up to the second floor, the high ceilings. “This is…this is beautiful.”

Chris reddened and smiled, a little embarrassed. “Thank you.”

He led them into the living room, bypassing the kitchen, and toward the veranda. When he saw Felix in his tank, Ben started wriggling in Stacy’s arms.

“Fitch!” he cried, pointing a chubby finger. Stacy stopped and they oohed and ahhed together as Felix zigzagged against the glass, Tommy joining them after a moment.

Once outside, Chris walked over to Tom, who was fidgeting with the knobs on the grill. He straightened at their approach, smiling wide.

He introduced himself as Chris’s boyfriend and shook the women’s hands, cooing at Ben, who stretched out his arms, demanding to be held.

“Oh, can I?” Tom asked, eyes wide on the toddler.

“Of course!” Stacy said, handing him the child. Ben immediately took Tom’s face in his hands and stared into his eyes, gurgling quietly in that wise way babies do when they see something important.

“That’s really surprising,” Stacy said, hand on her chin. “He usually doesn’t take to men very well.”

Tom and the baby continued to commune in some silent language, both giggling quietly together after a moment.

“He’s lovely,” he said, propping the baby on his hip like it was the most natural thing in the world to him.

“I brought pie,” Rosas said.

Tom gasped. “Oh, that’s wonderful because, my god, darling, I completely forgot about dessert,” he said, casting worried eyes at Chris, who side hugged him and kissed his temple gently.

“This all looks perfect,” Stacy said. “Can I help with anything?”

With everyone pitching in, moving around each other in circles, the ribs were cooked and plates were served.

Tommy came bounding outside, having been whispering with Felix the whole time, tracing his finger over the glass, making a fishy face back at the fish.

When he saw Tom, he came running over and shook his hand.

“My you’ve grown,” Tom said, Ben still touching his hair and humming.

Tommy grinned. “I’m playing football again!” He went on to describe his teammates and the new cleats his mother bought him and their gray and white uniforms—“We’re the sharks!”—and how he’s learning to make scrapbooks in his crafts program and how he really liked using the glue gun but the glitter got over everything and took forever to pick out and that school started in two weeks and he was super excited.

And then his eyes flitted behind Tom and they widened almost comically. Chris followed his gaze.

The pool gleamed unnaturally bright in the noon sun, all turquoise and shimmering light. The colorful plastic toys bobbed on its surface, a loose string of fake jungle animals.

“Ah, ah,” Stacy said, reading her son’s mind in that way mother’s do. “Maybe in a little bit.”

“But mom!”

“I can take you a little later on,” Tom said. “You and Ben. What do you say?”

Tommy nodded. “Okay!”

Everyone sat down to eat, passing around bowls and drinks from the cooler.

Stacy offered to take Ben from Tom so he could eat comfortably, but Tom shook his head, insisting that he had been picking at the food all day anyway and was just stuffed. Besides, he adored his time with the baby, who lay back in his lap, eyes blinking slowly. Before long, he was fast asleep, tucked into Tom’s arm, a moist bundle of chubby limbs.

“Like a little football, isn’t he?” Chris said, squeezing the baby’s big toe gently.

Tom laughed. “He’s adorable.”

Stacy talked about her job, and about the friends she was making with the other parents at Tommy’s crafts program. Rosas cut in with a smile.

“I’m telling you, you should join our softball league. There are some nice young men who play regularly.”

Stacy ducked her head shyly, a blush rising on her cheeks. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

When the baby began to stir at the end of their meal, Tom asked if he could take the kids out to swim. Tommy had only been picking at his food, too excited about the pool, and bounded out of his seat when his mother said it was okay.

Tom took the kids to the garden, where he put sunscreen on them and together, he and Tommy got Ben into his floatable jumpsuit. Chris watched as Tom, wearing his own swim trunks, led the children to the edge of the pool and then guided Tommy in. The boy laughed and jumped, fingers tight over his nose, sinking low and then bursting up, hair spraying water everywhere.

Ben pointed and screamed, his face split in a wide smile. Tom whispered to him and then sat down on the steps, letting the baby feel the water with his tiny grappling hands.

“He’s a natural,” Stacy said, staring a bit wistfully at Tom and her babies. “Treasure him. Trust me when I say not all men are like him.”

Chris smiled. “I do. I’m very lucky.”

“He’s happy with you,” Rosas said, and the two shared a knowing look over the table.

“Thank you,” Chris whispered, feeling for all the world unworthy.

After watching Tom swim around with the two boys, the baby wiggling and chortling wetly, Tommy flipping and diving to create waves, Stacy cleared her throat and turned to Chris, pushing aside her empty plate.

“Chris,” she started, putting a hand on his arm. “I asked Sandra to contact you because, well, I really wanted to express my gratitude to you. For helping me and my boys. I don’t know—well, I have no idea how we came to deserve such kindness and generosity from you. But please. I need you to know how grateful we are. How thankful _I_ am, as a mother, unable to provide for my kids with what I used to have, the situations I always found myself in, the men that…” She shook her head. “…That now I can see them with a life I’ve always dreamed of providing them. With your help, we’ve…” she paused, tears gathering and Chris leaned forward, taking her hand.

“You don’t have to say any more. Tom and I met your son at the police station. He’s such a special, wonderful kid, and he made an impression on the both of us. Filled with such a love for life, so happy to tell us about how he used to play football. I hope you won’t get upset, but he, in that way children talk about things so innocently, told us how you were all going through a rough time. How he couldn’t go to school anymore, how he had to stop playing sports.” Stacy started crying in earnest, shaking and blotting at her tears with a napkin. Chris squeezed her hand. “I wanted to help. He inspired that in me. I, for the longest time, avoided feeling anything for anyone. I used to go through life hating. And I’m not going to lie and say that’s all gone away. I have a hard time adjusting to existing without my anger, but Tom has been the biggest blessing in my life. He’s helped me find my way out of it. I’m getting better. And your son helped me too. I kept thinking about what he’d said to us that night, and I couldn’t put it out of my mind. And I knew I wanted to make a difference in his life."

She laughed quietly, wetly, sniffing into her tissue. "I almost didn't accept. It was too sudden. Too much. I remember telling Sandra, what do you _mean_ someone's giving me money? Did I win some kind of contest?" She smiled and glanced over to where her boys were cackling with Tom. "I don't know if I'll even be able to pay you back—."

"You don't have to. It was a gift."

She shook her head, overwhelmed. "Our lives are changed now. I can feel it. I'm happy where I work. I'm reading every day. I get discounts to buy the boys books. Tommy loves his crafts class at the rec. We've all started cooking together from this world cuisine book in the bargain bin at work. I mean, it's so much fun. Without all those...those people in our lives anymore, I'm able to focus on myself and my boys. Nothing will interfere. Ben is too young to know much of what's going on, but it's all so wonderful, Chris. Thank you. From the bottom of our hearts." She stood with a small sob and he rose to meet her hug. She clung to him, squeezing him hard. Across the table Rosas sat, eyes moist, nodding silently.

"Excuse us," Tom called out from the pool. He had both boys in his arms, arms and legs wrapped and twisted around him, clinging on like little monkeys. "We've had a rather lengthy discussion and my associates and I have decided that we would like apple pie now, please."

Stacy laughed and waved them in. "Apple pie it is!"

They spent the rest of the afternoon alternating between bouts of tackle football and splashing around in the pool. By the end of the day, both boys were worn out bundles of weak protests, but they finally collapsed into the backseat of Rosas’ car after Chris and Tom promised to go see Tommy's next football game.

After they left, Chris scrubbed the grill clean while Tom gathered the pool toys and deflated them, folding them carefully and putting them in the storage shed that housed the lawn mower and Judy’s gardening supplies.

“That was so nice,” Tom said, collapsing down onto a chair, the bridge of his nose and shoulders burnt red.

“You certainly took to those kids well,” Chris said, smiling. He closed the grill and went to sit beside Tom.

“Mmm, little darlings. They’re my buds now.”

“I’m so happy we could help them,” Chris said, taking his hand.

“You helped them, love. I’ve done nothing.”

Chris leaned his head back and chuckled. “You’ve done everything,” he whispered.

Tom opened his mouth to say something, but Chris leaned over and kissed him fast. When they broke apart, Tom was blushing, and Chris had never seen anything more beautiful.

They sat together, fingers laced, and watched the last of the sun disappear behind the tree line, waiting for the inevitable first twinkling lights of the fairies awakening.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter, guys! *sobs* This is hitting me pretty hard. I want to lie down and be still. *cue 'Be Still' by The Killers*
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely and incomparable duskyhuedladysatan <3 I love you so much omg.

The next three years passed in a blur of motion and color.

Chris reclaimed his starting position on the Falcons’ lineup, finally deciding to retire after the third season, which saw the team make a winning appearance at the Super Bowl, at the age of thirty-five.

Tom was accepted into medical school and earned his degree a few months before Chris announced his retirement. It was all great timing, because Norman contacted a colleague of his on Tom’s behalf, and was able to procure him a position at a sports therapy clinic.

Chris was ecstatic about the news. “That’s great, babe! What clinic?”

Tom fidgeted slightly, leaning his weight from foot to foot. “Um, well…”

Chris frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, darling. It’s just that, the job isn’t here.”

Chris immediately understood. “Which city?”

Tom told him.

He did the math in his head. “That’s only about six hours from here.”

“Only?”

“Well, I’m thinking in terms of traveling time for Stacy and the boys. So we can have them visit.”

As it was, the boys spent time at their house about once a month. They played games and swam and had cookouts. Chris taught Tommy all about the fundamentals of football, the tricks of the game, what it meant to be a teammate. Over the past three years, the boy had grown tall for his age, and at twelve years old was beginning to gain not only the weight for serious sports training, but also that quiet shyness that Chris was positive would blossom into a shy confidence that would take the kid places. They shared many happy moments with the children over the years. Judy became even more of a regular during their small get-togethers. There was always an abundance of food in the kitchen and floating pool toys and kick balls and bikes and small cars and play dinosaurs and coloring books, all gifts he and Tom gave the kids for Christmas and their birthdays. Tommy, in quiet voice, told Chris about his first kiss (in the crafts room closet of his middle school) and little Ben took his first steps out on their veranda. Tom was on the phone in an instant to text Stacy about it, who came rushing over after work to celebrate with them. They’d started a rather fond friendship with her and her children. Chris had even kind of sort of without even trying introduced her to a broadcasting assistant for their team. Whenever Chris teasingly asked her about how the two of them were doing, Stacy blushed red and shrugged her shoulders, noncommittally muttering something like ‘oh you know, we’ll see.’ Tommy was more forth telling, and according to the giddy smile on Stacy’s face after coming home from a date, he seemed to think things might be looking good for his mom and her ‘friend’.

“What are you saying?” Tom asked, bringing Chris out of his thoughts. The look of open hope on his face made Chris’s heart dance in a way he had become used to, spoiled even, over the last three years. He stood and took Tom’s neck. “I’m saying that we’ll go where you need to go, babe. You helped me when I needed it most. And there’s no way I could ever show you how much you and all that you’ve done for me has meant.” He shrugged and stroked his thumbs across Tom’s cheekbones, more tan than when they’d first meant. “I’m retiring in a few months. We can move to your new city. Pack everything up. Start somewhere new. This house,” he said, glancing up at the ceilings and down to the tiled floors. “Maybe it’s too big for us.”

Tom sniffed, eyes swimming with tears. “It’s not too big when the kids stay over for the weekend. Or when your teammates come over and we have cookouts. Or when Tommy invites his friends from school to swim.”

Chris smiled, rubbing Tom’s arms. “I know, babe. I know. But this is about you. And I’m here for you. And you have a great opportunity with this new job, to advance your career. It’s what you’ve worked so hard for. All those late nights studying. And the volunteering and the exams. This is the next step. I know it. And besides, I think I would really love it if we could look for a house. You know, together.”

Lashes wet and spiked, Tom blinked. And then smiled wide. “Are we really going to do this?”

Cupping his cheeks, Chris kissed his nose. “Yes, babe. We are.”

**

And so, with heavy hearts and sticky toddler kisses, Chris and Tom said their goodbyes to Stacy and Ben and Tommy.

“Such a quiet young man,” Tom whispered to Tommy, framing his face kindly. The boy was looking down, clearly trying to avoid looking at Tom with those moist eyes. “Now, now. It will all be alright. As soon as we’re settled in, we’ll have you all over. You saw the pictures of the new place. There’s a wide back lawn and the pool—.”

“Me wanna swim, Uncle Tom-Tom!”

“That’s right, my darling,” Tom laughed, bending to scoop up Ben, who was a long and squirmy little child, a spitting image of his mother. “We’ll swim and have lots to eat. We love to eat, don’t we,” he growled playfully in the child’s neck, making Ben burst out in wet giggles.

Chris touched Tommy’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry that we have to leave you.”

Tommy shook his head and sniffed. “It’s okay,” he said, a bit scratchily, his voice just beginning to break. “I know why you have to do it. I’m really happy for you guys. The new job. And with you retiring, it makes sense.”

It was nearly the same thing Chris had said to Tom to reassure him about the move. Only this time, Tommy was saying it to Chris, as if trying to comfort him instead. Chris felt his heart sag, not wanting to leave the kids so forlorn.

“Let’s not be sad about this,” Tom said, speaking in what Chris teasingly called his ‘therapist voice’, all cheer and optimism. “We’ll only be a little farther away. It could have been worse, loves. It could have been New York or even further than that across the country. Or it could even have been…,” he said, voice lowering dramatically. He gave Ben wide eyes, and the boy tensed with a wide smile, ready for giggles. “… _London._ ” More neck tickles and the boy was bucking in his arms, screeching.

Tommy laughed with them. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “That’s true. I didn’t think about that.”

“It’s all settled then,” Tom said, gathering their small group closer. “First week of your summer break, you two are coming to stay with us.”

“Football,” Chris said.

“And ice cream,” Tom added.

“Swimming.”

“And fish!” Ben yelled.

“And fish,” Tom whispered, looking over at Felix’s tank, where an older Felix swam in slow loops around the glass, not as energetic as he used to be. He and Chris were beginning to resign themselves to the fact that he might not survive the trip.

Stacy picked them up and said her own farewell. She was married now—Chris’s first shot at matchmaking a complete success—and working as an administrative assistant at the university. After she had been able to fully support herself and her children, she told Chris he no longer had to send her money. He did, however, continue to fund the two accounts he set up in the children’s names for their college education. He refused to budge on that. With a shy and grateful smile, she accepted.

They said their goodbyes to the other people in their lives. Norman, at the therapy clinic, who was adamant it was only a ‘see you later’. They said goodbye to the couple who had slowly been buying Tom’s small house from him. They were the sole owners now, and Tom finally had to let the place go. They had a final sit down with Detective Rosas, who had remained a close friend of theirs over the years. She wished them all the best, and after shaking each of their hands rather firmly, she grabbed them up in a hard hug, telling them that if they needed her for anything at all, she was only a phone call away.

And finally, there was Judy.

They invited her over for a final dinner, Tom having prepared a special meal of some of his favorite things that she’d taught him to cook.

She was misty-eyed the entire time, fussing over them and asking if they had everything settled, if there was anything else she could do.

That was the point where he and Tom looked at each other across the table.

They’d talked about it at length, and had readily agreed it was a good decision.

“Besides,” Chris said one night in bed. “The house is paid off. We can more than afford the new one without needing to sell this one. And her garden gets to me the most.”

Indeed, her garden had blossomed twofold over the past three years. Flowers and trees and green leaves grew in abundance, perfuming the yard and veranda on the warmest summer nights. It didn’t seem right that anyone but her should tend to it.

“Judy,” Chris said, placing down his fork. “I’ve known you for years now. You were my only friend at one point, you’ve seen me at my lowest. And you never turned away. Never failed to give me your kindest smile. You kept me going for a while there, when I felt like nothing was worth it anymore.” He took Tom’s hand and they smiled at each other. Judy looked between them two, blotting at her spilling tears with a napkin.

“I owe you so much. I wanted to thank you for all that you’ve done for me. Tom and I wanted to ask if you would accept a gift from us.”

“A gift?” she said.

“A gift,” Chris said. “This house. We wanted to leave it to you and your husband.”

She visibly paled, hand rising to her neck in astonishment. “The—the _house_?”

Chris laughed, touching her arm. “Yes! The house.”

“But…but I—we couldn’t possibly…accept this! It’s much too big and it’s…it’s a mansion!”

Chris rolled his eyes playfully. “Please. It’s _not_ a mansion. Sure, it has six rooms—.”

“And a gym,” Tom added with a wicked glint.

“And a small gym,” Chris conceded. “But this house has character. It’s not one of those mcmansions that are so popular. It has old bones, and you know her the best, Judy. It’s a great neighborhood, really quiet. It doesn’t take a lot to keep her hot or cool. Look, you’re one of the smartest women I know. I know you’ve saved money all these years. That you’re responsible. And I really think you deserve this. You and your husband can retire here and live peacefully. Please, would you consider it?”

She sat so still, breath shallow, eyes wide. “You really mean this?”

Tom smiled. “Yes, Judy. We really do.”

With tears and excited laughter, she rose to her feet and hugged them both, thanking them over and over. “May I go call my husband?” she said, clutching their arms.

“Yes!” they said together, and watched her dart through the back door, dialing as she went.

Tom turned into Chris, embracing him warmly. “That was so good,” he sighed, and Chris nodded, stroking his hair.

“It really was.”

**

The move went smoothly.

Their new home—a four bedroom single story ranch style house—was tucked into the end street of a private cul-de-sac. Tall maple trees bordered their front and back yards, leading into a small wood that cupped the edge of their property. The pool was kidney shaped and bordered by a tall wrought iron fence. A yawning porch cast the entire back of the house in deep and cool shade, and it's where he and Chris settled down with tired groans after their second week living there.

Everything was finally packed in its respective space, boxes donated, all the linen washed and folded away. Felix, looping around his tank in the living room, took in his new surroundings. Chris thought he looked happy enough to stay with them for a while longer.

Pizza was on its way, both too tired to even consider making something in their much too lovely kitchen, according to Tom. And it really was lovely, Chris thought, adoring how Tom's eyes had widened the first time they'd walked through the place. Vaulted ceilings, honey blond custom cabinetry with hand wrought fixtures, all warm tones and shiny marble floors, professional stainless steel appliances, and granite countertops, the kitchen was large and spacious, a separate island of smooth-handled storage drawers centered between, just beneath a modernized candelabra. The house had beautiful, airy windows and high ceilings, but no staircase, something Chris had insisted on with a private smile.

While Tom was busy acquainting himself with his new job and new coworkers and new clients, Chris made use of their new gym room, going on jogs early in the morning, and swimming laps in the evenings, usually joined by Tom, who lapsed right back into his flirty shark mode, chasing Chris through the sapphire depths.

It was with a rather curious inclination that Chris drove down to the Home Depot one day and bought soil fertilizer and small potted flowers, plus an assortment of seeds. Kneeling in the cool mud back home, he started slowly, scooping out small holes to sprinkle seeds, and lining the edge of his makeshift garden with the fledgling flowers already in soil. He watered them every morning, pruning them when, with a surprised chuckle, he noticed saplings actually growing, branching out to claim their own tiny space in the great big world.

He and Judy started emailing regularly, she sharing tips for successful gardening, for what to do during heat waves or when frost would most likely bite their tender nubs and stalks and how best to avoid the freeze damaging the sensitive plants. Over the next few months, his garden started to resemble something with an actual purpose, and he began devoting more of his time to it, ecstatic to see the fruit of his labor. He ended up losing a few plants and flowers, pulling their rotted forms from the soil with a huff of regret. But his small blooms and plants—everything from roses and cosmos to big-rooted geraniums and bleeding hearts—kept more often than not, and he started shaping his garden with care, finding the work as therapeutic as all the hours he put in at the gym or laps around the neighborhood or pool. He kept his spare tools and seeds in the shed to the side of the house, cleaning them every night, safeguarding them from any stray critters or rust.

One such day, he was surprised to find a package in the mail from Judy. In it came a letter, telling them of how she and her husband were getting along in their new home, the walks they took in the evenings, the water exercises she was doing to help her arthritis. At the bottom of the small box, he found a wrinkled, pock-marked seed, something he immediately recognized as a peach pit.

“From my garden to yours,” Judy had written, and Chris had immediately gone outside to carve out a place for the new addition. The tree that Judy took this seed from was grown from the first peach Tom had left him all those years ago in his bedroom at the old house, when Chris had foolishly taken one pain pill too many. They would have a part of that same tree here, he thought, as he scooped fresh soil over the hole, patting it down gently, hoping it caught as successfully as his other plants and flowers had.

Tom was entirely too content to lay out on a lawn chair with a glass of wine after a long day of work and simply watch Chris move around the garden, sprinkling this or that herb he'd read online was good for encouraging growth. He'd taken to calling Chris 'his farmer' and loved kissing his soil-caked fingers, bringing them to his own neck, the rough scratch of it making him moan. It wasn't the first time they had tumbled to the ground, the garden rising around them as Tom bloomed beneath him, like his own rare kind of flower.

They loved each other slow, and fast, and rough, and gentle. Spanking and hair pulling and bite marks and scratches were just as frequent as frantic whines in the quiet dark, tongue caresses and feather-light kisses. They would arch together, buried deep within, or breaching only just slightly, letting the other feel, just get the barest hint, of all that was theirs, all that would never cease to be, all that would grow in this new chapter of their lives, in love and together.

**

Stacy had agreed to let the boys stay with Chris and Tom for two weeks during the summer. Refrigerator stocked with food, pool full of inflatable toys, lawn mowed for football tackles and kickball matches, Chris and Tom prepared their rooms, changing the sheets and furnishing them with bundles of gifts.

They would arrive by train the following evening, and they had everything ready for them.

In the pre-dawn hours, the grass and surrounding grounds always grew moist with fresh dew.

He and Tom walked hand and hand through sodden maple leaves and grass flakes the next morning. Tom was barefoot, pale wisps of flesh winking in and out of Chris's peripheral vision. They stopped just before the entrance to the wood, mist curling around the tree trunks, giving the entire place a cool, prickling feel.

Without a word, Tom leaned close and kissed him. Chris reciprocated quickly, cupping Tom’s head and gripping his curls, slightly longer now. They began unbuttoning buttons and unbuckling jeans and then they were pressed flat to the ground, the soft grass blanketing Chris’s exposed bottom, his shirt left open, where Tom pressed his cool hands and braced himself on his chest.

Like their first time together, Tom bunched himself on Chris's lap as Chris angled himself in, feeling Tom still wet and loose from their earlier coupling. They both hissed as he slipped past the ring of muscle and into the enveloping heat. Tom felt warmer to him somehow, out there on that wide cool green, and now that Chris thought about it, maybe it wasn’t the yawning football field at the end of the tunnel in his dreams, all moist and dank, with its peeling flakes of grey paint, dripping water, and shadowed light bulbs. Maybe it was this sprawling yard of theirs, green tufts of grass growing wildly, flicking left and right in the great gusts of wind that liked to bowl down into the alley created between the giant wood and their house. It was so easy now to see that Tom was his conclusion, his gift, the real light at the end of that dripping, ominous tunnel. 

And as Tom started bouncing, his lovely face wincing, mouth falling open in a small gasp, Chris felt that maybe he preferred this final hilled plain to the hard sprints and tackling mounds of his playing days, such a short time ago. He would miss it, no doubt. Even though his muscles and limbs were as strong and tight as ever, kept hard and trim and healthy with his hours of physical exercise and Tom’s watchful eye, his bones were tired, and he was starting to like the quiet of a home well-loved, in love.

Tom moaned his name and Chris felt his abdomen clench, gripping his thighs, trailing his hands to cup at Tom’s bottom, moving him in faster strokes. Tom’s cock jumped between them, leaking and red, his heavy sac resting on Chris’s pelvis. He inched his hand there, knowing how best to tease Tom, how to draw out his orgasm, how to make him glow.

They bucked and gripped at each other, groaning into the gloom of morning, the woods silent and their own. As Chris pressed his thumb to the crease of Tom’s sac, his other fisting his cock, Tom arched and cried out, spilling thickly on his chest. He mumbled all sorts of filth and affection, making Chris grin as he took his limp body and flipped them fast, crushing Tom to the grass, pounding steadily between his legs. And with glazed eyes and a wicked, lazy grin, Tom stuck his finger into Chris, going a little deeper each time, until with a thin and determined finger pad, rubbed at that bundle of nerves until Chris bit his climax in his shoulder, a shuddering and grateful mess.

Panting, they rested, still collapsed over each other in the green, dew-dotted damp. Chris loved Tom’s neck, and he pressed his face there, already mapping out where he would mark next, later on, in their bed, or their bath, the silk curve of that pale skin with its tiny freckles lovely and precious to him, like butterfly wings.

"Are you happy?" Chris asked quietly, squeezing Tom's fingers. Tom leaned their cheeks together, running a hand up around his forearm, tickling.

"I am the happiest I've ever been, my love."

Chris kissed his curls, laughing low in his chest. "I am, too."

Just the day before, finally content that their house was put into the best order, they had dashed and skidded around the entire place, laughing and shouting, taking selfies or shots of each other in every room, out by the pool, at their front door, wading into the sunlit woods. They sent them off to their family all over the world, Chris to his brothers in Australia, Tom to his parents in London, and of course to Tommy and Ben and Stacy, and Judy and Sandra Rosas.

Everyone replied with words of congratulations, all saying how excited and happy they looked.

And Chris knew, lying out there by the edge of that great big wood, the just-born sun filtering through trunks and mist alike, frosting over their skin in a soft glow of gold, that they were happy. It was all he could ever have asked for, happiness, and the man beside him, his everything, his heart.

He was happy, and he knew he would be, for as long as his heart beat within him.

"You know," he said into the stillness of dawn, Tom finger combing his hair softly. "I haven't seen any fairy lights here."

Tom hummed beneath him, tranquil. "Nor I. But perhaps, in time, they will grace us with their lights again. For now, I have all that I need here with you. My giant."

Chris smiled, and leaned down for another kiss.


	23. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, everyone, this is it. The finally chapter. It's an epilogue written in the form of a letter. It's with the heaviest heart that I close this story, happy and grateful in the thought that Chris and Tom have existed in my mind in this AU. I had the best time writing this story, parts of which were taken from my own life (the physical therapy and not the men, sadly).  
> I can't thank you all enough! For your support, for your patience and encouragement. I move on now to other writing projects, some new stories that I've been outlining, and of course Stray Not! I hope to see you all there with me ;-)
> 
> A special thank you to my beta, who holds my hand and cries and laughs and fights with me. I love you! You are my biggest help. 
> 
> Thanks again! I love you all so much! <3
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely and incomparable duskyhuedladysatan <3

_My Darling Christopher,_

 

_I have lived by your side now for over ten years, and it’s a kind of happiness I never would have imagined for myself. You have been my steadfast partner in everything, and I love you so much._

_I still remember the day we met. I could never forget it. You were quite the sight, my love. All anger and low-browed frustration. It was like the tension radiated off you in waves. I very nearly turned around and fled from you. This wasn’t the first time I’d encountered the kind of rage that had left me with physical scars. I didn’t start to fear Matthew and his violence until it was far too late. There were signs, of course. There are always signs. But like my mother always told me as I was growing up, I’m far too trusting._

_It wasn’t always like that, as you know. He was very sweet when he wanted to be. Very caring. Until he wasn’t. It didn’t start to get frightening until he began showing it outside of the bedroom. And even in the bedroom, I was often in a heightened state of panic, wondering when he would suggest doing something more prolonged, more painful, more about something darker and less about love. Or even sex. I couldn’t say if I loved him. I know I didn’t at the end of it all. All I knew was fear._

_Ending it was rather difficult. He begged and pleaded and promised. No more injuries. No more pain. No more…whatever our relationship had dwindled to._

_Regardless, I won’t speak of any of that. I made a promise to myself, as well you know, that I put all that behind me, and I have. The scars still left on my body fade a little more each year, having become so fine almost none can see them. None but you. And even knowing, you have laid claim to each and every one with gentle and sweet kisses, bestowed every morning and night, and often in between._

_But that day we met was a stepping stone, of sorts, a bridge I had to choose to cross and risk injury and heartbreak all over again, or to let go and continue on in my solitude which, while not harmful to me, was still at times, quite debilitating. But it became exceedingly apparent that most of the rage you exhibited was self-directed, so much so that sometimes I wondered if you were even aware I was there, so focused internally as you were, so consumed by whatever it was that had you in its clutches._

_I desired so much to know you, to reach inside your heart and heal you there, as I slowly and patiently was doing with your leg._

_But it was blatantly obvious that you didn’t like people. You didn’t like making idle talk, sharing personal stories, bonding. Despite all of that, I know you don’t hate anyone, not even your parents, who were cordial, but cold, just as you warned me they would be before our visit three summers ago. You are nothing like them, my heart. You are like the sun, to me. I know that, from our conversations, it’s hard for you to see the point in making an effort at something you feel won’t last._

_I can certainly understand the hesitation._

_But your pain and my pain are two entirely different animals. Both of us have been hurt by other people; both of us, in the early stages of our acquaintance, had been resigned to a life of wondering why._

_So when I first saw you at the clinic, glowering in your seat by the front door—and you glower so beautifully, my love, I must say; you really don’t know your own beauty— I steeled myself against what I knew would probably be a terrible client. I didn’t lie to you when I said that I wanted to hold you close and ease your pain. I did. I still do. But I was only a bit afraid of you, love, and_ immensely _attracted to you._

_It wasn’t your fault, the fear you inspired in me. It was just something that I had been living with for years at that point. Years of living alone and sleeping alone and eating alone. I hid it well. I smiled and I tried to joke and ease your heavy heart. But you rebuked my every effort, you stubborn devil._

_But in the middle of that great wasteland I found myself in from time to time, alone in my mind, I promised myself that I would try. That I would smile with people and laugh with them and listen to them and be kind. It was just something I had to do for myself._

_Still, I could sense your resistance starting to melt, bit by bit. You would look at me longer, lean into my touch, follow me with your eyes. God, how stunning you would make me feel with only a single glance. And then slowly, you started to smile, and talk more, even if you were still terribly reserved with me._

_And then that frightful batch of emails we exchanged, do you remember? Warning me that something was wrong, that you weren’t alright. I can’t tell you how fast my heart dropped in my chest. I couldn’t stand it, being so far from you, the not knowing. I can hardly remember my rush to your house, the hard grip on the steering wheel, blood pounding in my ears. To check on you was no decision at all. I had to do it. I still think about that moment I found you. Lying so still on the bed, I wondered with no small amount of dread, if you had overdosed. It still gives me chills to think that I almost lost you before I ever even had you._

_Your recovery was quite the journey for us both. And now we are here, together still, our home often host to pillow fights and giggle fits, and cookouts and strewn toys and pool splashes and hikes in the woods and lazy days on the grass. The boys have grown up so lovely, haven’t they? I love them so much, and I often wonder what our children would have looked like had we been able to have any. But at the end of it all, it’s easy to see that we’ve already had them, haven’t we? In Tom and Ben? I would never have changed a thing._

_I know you want to do everything for me. You’ll want to slay my dragons and fight back any threat. And you do so great a job being my protector, my mentor, my partner, and friend. But we both know that there will be some things I need to do for myself, as I learned before I met you._

_That won’t stop you from trying, though, will it, my giant? I love you._

_And I can’t thank you enough for standing by my side while we discover this life together, while you help me with my ghosts, and I help you with yours._

_I got home early today, and wanted to do this for you. While you were at the Rec with your group of kids, planned something and cooked some food. It’s in the oven. It’s nothing big. Just me, for you._

_I’ve left this letter for you at the start of my trail of hints. Follow them, and you will find me, perhaps where the fairy lights shine, or where the maple leaves gather, or in the waters we both know so well, the mermaid that I am to you. Or maybe I’m under the shade of our peach tree. Come to me, for I miss you dearly already. I’ll be waiting, just as you like me best._

_All of my love all of my life,_

_Tom_

 

Chris looked up from the letter, blinking away the swimming tears, and smiled. He touched his thumb to the spiked and elegant scrawl of Tom’s handwriting, and then folded the letter carefully. He tucked it under his pillow and jumped to his feet, running down the hall and through the living room to the great wide outside to find Tom, the sun-crested tops of the tree line promising a good hunt.

End.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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